


What Binds Us (Part1-The Autumn)

by dandelionpower



Series: Seasons in the North Hills [1]
Category: Being Human (UK), The Almighty Johnsons
Genre: AU, Arranged Marriage, M/M, Men in Kilts, Pagan Rites, Slow Build, Some angst, They are Both Humans, imaginary universe inspired by Scottish Highlands, really slow burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2015-06-27
Packaged: 2018-03-02 02:42:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 103,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2796719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dandelionpower/pseuds/dandelionpower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James Mitchell, the Great Lord of the clans' federation, is dead. A gathering had been called. The chiefs of the nine clans would come to Brastàl Castle to pledge allegiance to his son and heir: John Mitchell. This gathering is also the occasion for the young man to keep the promise he had made to his father : to consolidate an alliance by marrying the man of the Johnsons' clan to whom he is already engaged since childhood. John and his fiancé haven't seen each other for eighteen years.</p><p>Illustrated by DRAGON4488</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Strand of Pale Hair

**Author's Note:**

> This is an AU that takes place in an imaginary universe inspired by Scotland's traditions but doesn't have any pretensions of historical or cultural accuracy whatsoever. 
> 
> Beta: my Katyushha (I'm crazy in love with you, dear).

"Prrrrrrrrr" made the arrow, its shaft vibrating from the impact.

John adjusted the fabric of his blue and green tartan kilt on his shoulder and leant down to take another arrow from the ground. He drew his bow, aimed and shot. The arrow hit the target a few centimeters from its sister. He had less luck with the third one and he lost the sight of it as it flew between the trees.

He cursed, put his bow in the grass and walked to the other side of the heap of hay where the target was, to search for his missing arrow. Usually, a little session of archery was all it took to soothe the young man's nerves, but right now, even shooting a hundred arrows wouldn't be enough.

It was three weeks now that the Great Lord of the clans' federation was dead.  James Mitchell had been a powerful war lord and he had ruled over the nine clans for thirty years of prosperity. The news of his death had spread everywhere in the North hills. A gathering had been called. The chiefs of the nine clans would come to Brastàl Castle to pledge allegiance to John Mitchell, James' only son. He would become the new Great Lord of the federation… at least if nobody tried to defeat him.

The young man found his arrow planted in a tree trunk but instead of taking it, he just let himself fall at the foot of the tree and he closed his eyes. He listened to the wind whistling in the leaves above his head to steady his tense breathing, trying to match the wind’s slow rhythm.

Curiously, it wasn't the prospect of meeting the clans' chiefs that was making him nervous. In fact yes, it was quite scary, even for a grown 25 year old man. But at the same time, he was an accomplished warrior who had proven his skills more than once. His father had been a good model and everybody could see that John was a born leader. In fact, what was really giving him the jitters was the prospect of meeting his fiancé.

He couldn't avoid this arranged marriage. John had sworn to his father on his death bed that he would keep the promise James had made to Johan Johnson long ago, and take his second oldest son Anders as his husband.

Mitchell had been promised in marriage to Anders for as long as he could remember. He didn't have much to say in the matter. The Johnsons of Aklànd were the richest clan of the nine and probably the only one that had the potential to overthrow the Mitchells'. It never happened because James Mitchell and Johan Johnson had been close friends in their youth and the Johnsons had always been loyal. It's even as a tribute to his friend's patronym that the Great Lord had named his son John.

Not long after John's birth, the nine clans had entered in a war with some of the nomad tribes from the plains that were venturing in the hills, burning villages and plundering temples. During a battle, James Mitchell had got injured and he would have been killed if Johan hadn't defended him, sacrificing one of his eyes in the fight.  Out of gratitude, James had promised that he would give his son in marriage to one of Johan's children, so, that way; the two families would be joined in a durable alliance. Lord Johnson was happy to oblige; having one of his children engaged to the future ruler gave him an interesting position among the nine clans. He had already had three sons from three different mothers: Mikkel, Anders and Tyrone. At that time, Mikkel was ten years old, Anders was six and Tyrone was still a baby. Johan wanted to keep his eldest son as his official heir who would take his place at the head of the Johnson's clan. That's why he had chosen his second son to be the spouse of the future Great Lord. The fact Anders was six years older than his fiancé hadn't been considered as an obstacle to the success of the union.   

John and Anders had met only on one occasion : during an autumn feast. James' heir was seven and his fiancé was a teenager. Anders was already old enough to be allowed to wear the red and black kilt of his clan.

That night, John had observed the other boy from behind his mother's skirt. Lady Ann had told her son to stop hiding, to go and talk to his fiancé but John was too intimidated. First of all, everybody in the Mitchell family and almost everybody from the nine clans had dark hair and dark eyes, just like him. Most people in the north hills had brown or black eyes, some had dark grey or dark green eyes. It was the first time John had seen someone with hair the color of dried grass and eyes pale like a summer morning sky. The two boys had stared at each other, the teenager with obvious disdain in his eyes, probably already regretting that the fate had assigned him to spend his marital life with a shy skinny wee boy. Later that night, during the banquet, their fathers had forced them to stand in front of everybody and hold hands as the Great Lord was repeating for everybody to hear the engagement that was binding the two clans together by that future marriage. As soon as the speech was over, Anders had let go of John's hand, wiped his own on his kilt and left to join his older brother at the other side of the room without a word or a single look in the younger boy’s direction.

John Mitchell had never seen his fiancé again after that. On the other side, he had met Mikkel on multiple occasions, mainly after Johan had disappeared during a fishing trip and was presumably dead. Mikkel was now the head of the Johnson clan and John got to see him at least four times a year during the war councils and the seasonal feasts. As the diplomacy required, the curly haired man took these opportunities to ask news of his fiancé. Every time, Lord Johnson would reply something like "Anders is well. He reiterates his attachment to you and looks forward to being the joy of your days and the comfort of your nights." The last part was most probably a lie but John was too well-mannered to point it out. Instead, he replied with the same kind of polite formula learnt by heart:" tell your brother I send him my deepest affection and assure him that half of my heart and half of my bed belong to him."

Since she had exchanged letters with John's father before they got married, Lady Ann had encouraged her son to write to his future beloved, so, maybe, they could get to know each other by correspondence. John Mitchell was much more a warrior than a poet, but he had tried anyway, writing long letters in which he described his life in Brastàl and asked a few questions about Anders. All these letters stayed unanswered. The young man continued to send them for the sake of politeness, thinking that he would seem rude if he just gave up and stopped writing.

He had also sent to Aklànd a few gifts for Anders over the years. Once, he had asked Mikkel which one of the fifty spirits Anders was praying to. Mikkel had answered that his brother was not praying much but that he was born under _Braìg_ , the spirit of speech. John had hastened to go to the temple and he had browsed the carved wooden panels around the main room to find _Braìg_. For its part, the heir of the Great Lord was born under _Väm_ , the spirit of blood. Everybody had seen it as a good omen –blood gave life and was a symbol of stability. It also announced that the child would become a mighty warrior, which, in John's case, had been proven to be true.

 _Braìg_ 's symbol was a mouth with parted lips. John took a piece of paper and drew the symbol on it. Then, he went to see the city's best blacksmith and asked him to make a metal pendant with the spirit of speech's symbol. The blacksmith created a real work of art, adorned with knot works. The young heir had tied it to a lace of the finest leather and, in the middle of the summer, when Mikkel had come to Brastàl, he had intrusted him the gift for his fiancé. He never had any news about it…no real news at least. At the war council at the beginning of winter, Lord Johnson had told him that Anders had been really happy about the gift and was thanking him, but once again, John doubted that this expression of gratitude was really coming from his fiancé himself.

It had taken him by surprise when, about one year ago, Mikkel had come to the castle to visit his liege, carrying an envelope with John's name on it. When he was alone, the young man couldn't contain his curiosity and opened it. There was a piece of paper folded in it. The message was saying: "I remember from our last meeting that you were staring. Here is a bit of it so you can get used to the color."  He didn't understand until he looked in the envelope again and noticed the strand of pale hair kept together by a black wire. John took it in his hand. It was soft and it looked like a candlelight: golden with reddish highlights. His mother had told him once that this hair color was called "blond". Her great grandmother had told her a story of a little girl she had met who had hair like wheat and called it that way. With his unique golden hair, John's fiancé was really one of a kind... The heir surprised himself by having frequent daydreams in the following weeks. He was imagining how it would feel to bury his fingers in Anders' blond mane. One thing he couldn't quite figure out was the tone of Anders short letter. Was it smug, cheeky, teasing or plainly defying? He had read it at least twenty times and still couldn't get his head around it.

The only mental image the warrior had of Anders was the one of a haughty prepubescent boy. His fiancé was thirty one years old now. He was surely very different from what John remembered. He had asked for a portrait in his numerous letters but since none of them were answered, all he could do was try to imagine what the Johnson's family second son looked like. Imagination wasn't exactly John's strongest suit. Apart from the paleness of the hair, the rest of Anders' image in his mind was blurry and indistinct, like a reflection on troubled water.

A few days ago, John had begun to prepare the castle for the arrival of his future husband. Lady Ann had moved from the masters' room to a single room on the first floor, leaving the bigger one to her son. John had got rid of some old furniture, had asked for a new mattress, new fur covers and linen blankets for the large bed. He had placed a game table and chairs in a corner of the room, wondering if Anders liked to play cards, dice, chess or checkers. In another corner, he asked the servants to install armchairs and a bookshelf near the widest window, in case his future husband was fond of reading.

John had had a slight breakdown when he had called one of his servants to ask him to remove the old heavy fabric tapestry that was covering one of the room's walls.

"I would like to have a new tapestry to replace that one," John had instructed him.

"You're right, this one is quite old-fashioned," the servant commented, studying the image of boats on a raging sea.

"Yes, but my mother is quite fond of it. Maybe you could transfer it to her new room."

"Of course, my Lord."

John lost himself in the contemplation of the tapestry for a moment. Interior decoration was definitely not his forte but he was making an effort to make the room cozy so Anders could feel at home. He would probably not succeed in making his husband love him or even like him, but maybe he could make him tolerate him, or, at least, not hate him too much.

The man servant coughed discreetly to attract his attention. "I beg your pardon, my lord, but you haven't told me yet what kind of tapestry you want to replace the old one."

"Oh, yes, I'm sorry," John muttered. In fact he had no idea what kind of patterns or design he wanted.

Confronted with his master's indecisive silence, the servant spoke again. "Maybe my lord would like a war scene, or sacred symbols… or maybe something a little more intimate, since it's for the marital bedroom."

The young lord blushed just slightly at the suggestion. Clans men liked to decorate their bedrooms with erotic scenes. John thought that it was definitely not the best idea in this circumstance. He didn't want to look too forward in Anders' eyes. He didn't even know if his husband would let him touch him. Of course he would have to, on their wedding night at least. Maybe the blond man would refuse any physical contacts once the conjugal duty would have been performed. After all, it would only take one time for the marriage to be official.

"What do you think Master Anders would like?" the other man asked him, trying to be helpful but just putting him in misery even more.

John sat on the edge of the bed and looked at the floor rubbing his forehead. "I really don't know…" he sighed. He had absolutely no idea what were his fiancé's tastes. He didn't even know what he looked like, for the spirits' sake!

"If I may, my lord, since Aklànd is known for its forests and wildfowl, maybe a hunt scene would be an interesting option."

"Yes… a hunt scene… that's perfect," John replied absentmindedly.

He’d realized then more than ever that a complete stranger was about to become an important part of his life. That had been more terrifying than any raid of bloodthirsty nomads. War was simple. You drew your sword, you stabbed, you killed, or you were killed. It was reassuringly predictable. On the field of sentiments, John felt like he was losing his grip.

***

 

Still seated at the foot of the tree, John was dragged out of his musings by a voice calling his name.

"I'm here, George!" he shouted back, standing up and brushing off the dried leaves from his kilt.

"What are you doing here, by the death spirit?!" his friend scolded him as he joined the heir, carrying the bow and the spare arrows John had left in front of the target. "Everybody is searching for you. Lady Ann is starting to panic - she thinks you ran away."

"I didn't, as you can see," John snorted, taking his arrow out of the tree trunk.

"You better hurry up," George said, "the Johnsons' boat just landed on the river bank a few minutes ago."

The heir peeked down at his dirty kilt and shirt with a stern look. "I guess I better get changed."

"Indeed, come on," the other man agreed, taking him by the shoulders and dragging him toward the castle. "Are you nervous, lover boy?" George teased his best friend.

"Pfff, no," John huffed, "why would I be?"

 

To be continued….


	2. John Meets Anders

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning, just to be sure : this is an alternative universe, this is not historical scotland. It's just inspired by it.

Annie, John's mother's maid, untied the wool yarn that gathered John's hair in a messy bun and carded her fingers through the thick dark mane. "Do you ever use a comb?" the servant grunted as she proceeded to separate his long tangled hair into three strands and braid it.

As soon as Lady Ann had succeeded to grab her son in the castle's North wing, she had dragged him to her room and had put him in her maid's capable hands.

"You have curly hair too. You know what'd happen if I tried to comb it," the young man replied in the same moddy tone. He hated when people were making a fuss about his appearance. With the upcoming wedding, he knew he had to expect and endure a lot of that sort of fussing over the next weeks.

"Ouch!" John protested, reaching a hand to the back of his head where Annie was struggling with his hair and pulling it painfully. The maid batted his hand away with a snort. Annie didn't care it was her Lord's hand she had just put a slap on. John, Annie and George had spent all their lives side by side, already crawling together in the mud of Brastàl Castle's courtyard as babies. He knew he could never expect them to really see him as "Lord Mitchell": he would always be just their friend "John".

Lady Mitchell had already planned everything even before John came back from his archery practice, as if she’d known by intuition that her son would need a clean kilt and a laundered shirt. No wonder why she was born under _Clayr_ , the spirit of foreseeing. The tall woman was now standing in front of her son, holding the shirt he hadn't put on yet. John was still bare-chested and seated on the chair, submitted to Annie's capillary torture. Lady Ann was inspecting him from head to toes with narrow eyes, like she was trying to find the little flaw that would compromise her son's first meeting with his fiancé. John tensed up under this stare: it was probably the last thing he needed right now. His mother stepped toward him and touched his shoulder with a frown. "What if Anders doesn't like your tattoos?" she worried," you shouldn't have gotten them in the first place."

The young lord knew that the only tattoos his mother would ever approve of would be the wedding ones - the one inside the wrist that distinguished the single poeple from the married ones. But John liked the ones he already had. He had the words "man of strength" written with ancient letters on one shoulder and on the other, he had the black shape of a blood drop in a circle: the symbol of _Väm,_ his tutelary spirit.

John sighed. "You don't have to fear about that, Mother. When Anders sees me naked for the first time, we are going to be already married and he'll have no other choice but to accept me the way I am."

"You seem to be forgetting about the three trials," Annie pointed out.

  
Mitchell's stress suddenly reached a new level. He gulped and his forehead covered with nervous sweating. Yes, he had forgotten. How could he have forgotten about the sacred matrimony trials?

His union with Anders wasn't just a simple marriage: it was a wedding between two members of ruling families. As such, the tradition required that during three days, in front of the clans’ chiefs, they would go through three tests that would determinate if they deserved each other. Mitchell would have to prove to the other noblemen and noblewomen (and especially to his fiancé's family), that he had enough courage and strength, physically and mentally, to be worthy of having Anders as a husband. His bethroted would have to do the same for him. And Annie was right: the future spouses being tried in that kind of ceremony weren't allowed to wear anything else than their clan's kilt. Anders would get to see the tattoos Lady Ann was so worried about. John didn't care about that detail, though. He had to fulfill the promise made to his father.  The idea that he could still lose his fiancé if he didn't play his cards was adding to the heavy pressure he already felt. 

Annie and her agile fingers had managed to braid the lord's hair into one plait, long enough to rest between his shoulder blades. "I'm almost done," she told him, taking a green colored leather lace from a table nearby. She folded it in two, twisted it a few times around the base of the plait, on the nape of John's neck. Then, she twined the green lace around the braid down to the tip where she tied it with skill. She took a step back to appraise her work and declared herself satisfied. "There you go, handsome. Anders Johnson is quite a lucky man," she told him fondly.

"Thanks Annie," he murmured before standing up taking the shirt his mother was handing out to him. He passed it over his head and tucked it under his kilt and belt. Then, he put his green woolen fingerless gloves back on. He practically never removed them. They were handy for sword training, archery and to fight the cold of the humid castle's corridors.

He turned his head toward the open door when he heard footsteps in the corridor. George appeared in the doorframe. "The representatives of the Johnsons' clan are in the courtyard, waiting for you," the guard informed his lord.

"Be polite and proper," Lady Ann commanded her son as she arranged his shirt collar, "Remember that this man will be your lifetime companion. The fact that he’s already promised to you does not mean you don’t have to court him...but be honest in your compliments, or it'll show."

"And John," his mother hailed him as he was about to cross the door, "you have inherited your father's willpower. If you want that man to be yours, you won't let anything get in your way."

He bowed to his mother,  gave Annie a small smile and followed George into the corridor.  
"Is he there with them?" Mitchell asked George as they were going down the narrow spiral staircase, knowing he didn't have to name the person he was refering to.

"Yes. Do you want me to come with you?" the guard asked his lord and friend.

"No," Mitchell declined. He knew he had to do that alone.

" _Riga_ be with you, then," George said as they reached the door that led into the courtyard.

"Thanks, George."

He would indeed need the help of the spirit of marital and political alliances.

The guard squeezed his friend shoulder as the young lord put his hand on the door handle and took a deep breath. His palms were sweaty and his heart was pounding like a war drum. He pushed the door and the daylight blinded him for a second.

The castle courtyard was always buzzing with activity and today was no exception. There were several people there but John's gaze was immediately attracted to a group of men dressed in red and black kilts. He walked toward them. He couldn't tell which one was his fiancé yet, but as soon as they noticed his presence, they dispersed to form a line in front of him. That's when Mitchell saw him, standing at Mikkel's side.

Anders was the shortest of the whole family. Somehow, John had imagined that his fiancé would be taller than him, probably because the last time he had seen him, the blond was a teenager and he’d been still a little boy. Despite his small frame, the first Johnson heir seemed fit and well-built. The hard curves of the calves under the black and red kilt were promising nice strong legs. Mitchell knew he was staring, but how could he not?

Anders locked his pale blue gaze with the Lord's one for a few seconds, his expression unreadable.

The golden hair still had its mesmerizing effect on John. Anders' blond mane was just long enough to curl slightly on the back of his neck. One thing that wasn't there the last time they had met was the heavy stubble, a little darker and redder than the hair, which was covering the man's defined jawline and chin. Anders' nose was long but still pleasant and for some reason, it reminded John of the one of a red fox. It gave him a mischievous air. Anders had full lips that crooked in a slight smirk when he realized with what intensity he was being stared at. Mitchell was still troubled by the unusual hair color, but he had to admit that his fiancé was undoubtedly attractive.

He didn't have time to study his future husband any further because Mikkel stepped toward him. They grabbed each other's forearm in the traditional greeting between two clan's lords.

"Welcome to Brastàl, Lord Johnson," John said with a sincere smile. "I'm happy we get to meet again. I hope the spirit of travels has been on your side."

" _Yeg_ has been favorable to us, thank you. We left Aklànd only six days ago. You know that clan Johnson would always be the first to answer your call, my liege," Mikkel replied. "I guess some introduction would be in order," he added, stepping back and designating the other clan's men accompanying him.

"This is my brother Tyrone, born under the protection of the spirit of winter”, Mikkel said as he introduced a pale-faced young man who bowed in front of Mitchell with a kind smile.

"This is Axl, born under the spirit of strength," Lord Johnson continued, pointing at the tallest and youngest of the brothers who bowed as well. Axl wasn't a boy anymore, but not quite a man yet. 

"This is our cousin Olaf, who's a priest of _Bàdr_ , the spirit of wisdom," he introduced him, pointing at a bald man who put a hand on his heart and inclined his head with respect.

"And finally, this is…"

"I think he knows who I am," Anders cut his older brother off, drilling his destabilizing gaze in John's again, "I'm easily recognizable."

"This is Anders," Mikkel sighed.

The introduction was followed by a long, uncomfortale silence, everybody looking at Anders and expecting him to greet Lord Mitchell back, but the blond man stood still.

"Anders… I think you forgot to bow in front of the Great Lord," the oldest Johnson pointed out.

"He isn't a Great Lord yet, is he?"

"No, you're right, I'm not," John conceded, taken aback by his fiancé's defiant behavior.

"He's still a clan chief, you have to show respect," Mikkel sneered.

  
"Will I still have to bow to you once we're married?" Anders asked his future husband.

"No, of course not," John stuttered.

"Good. Let's take that good habit right now, then," the blond man retorted.

Mitchell remembered his mother's advice. He had to make a good impression at all costs. He cleared his throat and spoke again. "I'm honored to welcome you and your family to Brastàl Castle, Anders. You've grown in strength and beauty. I'm delighted to see you in good health. I feel blessed."

"And you're less ugly than I thought you'd be," Anders replied, eyeing his soon-to-be husband and batting his pale eyelashes in a mocking seduction attempt.

John let out a nervous chuckle. "Well, that is a good point in my favor, I guess."

"We came bearing gifts for you, my liege," Lord Johnson hastened to change subject and dissipate the awkwardness, "but I guess you'd prefer that we brought them to you later."

"Your generosity overwhelms me, my friends, "John answered politely, "but you’ve already made me the greatest present by bringing me my other half." The young man tried to offer his fiancé a sincere smile. 

"We shall bring you the gifts at the banquet tonight, then," Mikkel concluded.

"Sure, Mike," Anders snorted, "this way you can tie me up and add me on the top of the pile."

John rubbed his hands together uneasily and shifted from foot to foot. Olaf was shaking his head with an exasperated sigh. Tyrone and Axl were staring at their blond brother with wide eyes.

"I'm asking your forgiveness for my brother's behavior, my lord," Mikkel apologized, "he doesn't know what he's saying." Lord Johnson took Anders by the arm firmly. " If you excuse us," he told John, before dragging his brother away in the direction of the horses' trough.

"Why does Anders always have to be such a prick?" Axl grunted.

"I guess you shouldn't say that in front of the man who's going to spend the rest of his life with him," Olaf pointed out.

"If your lordship doesn't mind, we'd like to get back to the river and start settling our camp," Tyrone asked John.

Lord Mitchell gave them his permission to get back to their boat. The three men got on their horses and left through the main gate.

It was like all activity had ceased in the castle's courtyard. The servants, merchants and artisans had either left or gone back inside. Anders and his brother had retreated behind a wooden panel to talk, but because of the way the castles' walls were configured, John could hear their angry discussion.

"Why didn't father choose Ty!?" he heard Anders protest. "They are almost the same age!"

"You know very well why he chose you," Mikkel snapped.

"Yeah, because I'm the freak runt of the family…"

"I'm done with you playing the victim, Anders," his older brother groaned, "I won't let you put dishonor on our name one minute more. Father did what was the best for you so quit being ungrateful and stop insulting the ancestors by your ill-behavior. "

"Oh don't worry, Mike. The ancestors can rest in peace," the blond man bellowed, "I'll do my duty and marry that man. But don't count on me to pretend I’m happy about it just to preserve the good appearances."

"I'm afraid you'll have to, brother mine."

John decided he had heard enough. He turned on his heels and headed back to the North wing's door. He had to go to the kitchens and give orders for tonight's banquet – a dinner he had to spend seated side by side with the man who hated him already.

Over the years, he had imagined several versions of that first meeting….some good, some bad. He knew it would be awkward and embarrassing for both parties, but he had never thought it would be that catastrophic. Obviously, Anders wasn't pleased to be there at all. John couldn't blame him. Neither of them had had a choice. What was troubling him the most was the fact that his attempts at kindness had left Anders completely indifferent.

George was waiting for him on the other side of the door. He frowned when he saw his friend's expression. "I take that it didn't go well…"

The glare John threw him as an answer was speaking volumes and George wisely abstained himself from any further comments.

One thing John had learnt from his father was that when you failed, there was just one option: to try again. If you were not bleeding, it meant you hadn't tried hard enough. It was his duty and his fate to marry Anders and he wouldn't give up that easily.

He never expected them to fall for each other at first sight, but despite the fact John wasn't marrying out of love, he had always looked forward to having a husband – a partner to share his life with, eventually adopt children and build a future and a family. He had been told since childhood that he would wed Anders. He had stopped rebelling against that idea long ago. Apparently, it wasn't his fiancé's case.

The premarital tests would begin on the day after tomorrow. He had only one day and a half to convince Anders that he was someone worth fighting for.


	3. The Witch's Child

 

The day had been long and tiresome and it wasn't close to be over.  

After the Johnsons, Mitchell had had to greet the lords of the other clans who had arrived to Brastàl Castle during the day by road or by boat on the river. When the sun began to make its way down to the horizon, the clans Blackwood, Douglas, MacCallum and Duncan were already there. The clans Keir, Ferguson and MacGregor would probably arrive during the night or the following day.

In the last orange lights of the autumn day, John was watching the bank of the Quigley River and the camps of the clan's men from his bedroom's narrow windowpane. His eyes were lingering on the two red and black tents of clan Johnson. He hadn't got to see his fiery fiancé since the morning's disastrous meeting in the courtyard.

At least, this brief talk had given the young lord the occasion to catch a glimpse of his future husband's personality. Anders seemed to be like one of those wild untameable stallions nobody was able to submit to their will. Now that he had overcome his initial shock, John found that trait oddly enticing. He had never wanted to have a quiet and submissive partner; he had no desire to be wed to a doormat that let people walk all over him. The fact his fiancé was resisting him, hiding behind a shield of sass and snarky comments, was just making Mitchell desire him even more. He had always loved challenges and disdained the things he could have easily.  

It didn't mean he wasn't worried. The Mitchells had ruled over the North Hills federation for four generations now. John couldn't afford for this marriage to fail. He wouldn't bear the idea of disappointing his ancestors.  

His heartbeat accelerated slightly when he saw a small silhouette with a blond head getting out of one of the tents. Even from far away, Anders was recognizable among the other clan's men. John watched his fiancé take his white horse's reins from the wood pole where it was tied and lead the animal to the river where it could drink.

Even if they had exchanged only a few sentences when they had met, Mitchell could sense that the blond man was witty and had a remarkable strength of character. He had stood up to his older brother and he had put Mitchell in his place, reminding him that he wasn't Great Lord yet. Anders was right: nothing was won yet. John had taken his future title for granted but to become a Great Lord, he still had to marry and to convince the clans' chiefs that he would be a good leader. Since no single men were allowed to be at the head of the federation, he had to win Anders first if he wanted to accede to his father's title.

Until now Mitchell had sorted his problems with either the strength of his arms or with his mind when it came to battle strategies. His heart, on the other side, was like a sword without a hilt or a bow without a string: he had absolutely no idea how to use it. Or, at least, he felt like he didn’t have any control on it.

He observed Anders leading his horse to a patch of lush grass a little further to make it graze. The blond leant down before the eating horse to scratch it behind the ears.

John rested his temple on the cold stone wall. "He loathes me," he said out loud.

Lady Ann tore her eyes away from her embroidering work to give her son a compassionate gaze. "It's not you he hates," she said softly, "it's the idea of getting married he can't stand."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Well, first of all, he can't hate someone he doesn't know," she pointed out.  "Maybe I'm biased because I'm your mother, but I think that nobody can really hate you. You are a good and kind man, John. Sooner or later, he'll figure that out," she reassured him.

The young lord tucked behind his ear a black curly strand that had escaped from his braid, his eyes never leaving the river side and his future husband. "If he doesn't like the idea of getting married, by extension, he dislikes me as well."

"That is something you can change."

"I don't know…" he sighed, not convinced.

"Of course you can," Lady Mitchell protested, "it worked for me and your father."

"Really?" John asked, looking at his mother with interest. If he could get any helpful advice, he would gladly take it.  

She nodded. "When your grandfather decided it was time for him to retire and pass the title to James, my father received a letter telling us that we were summoned to Brastàl. I was engaged to your father since I was twelve but that future marriage always seemed unreal to me somehow. Despite the letters I had exchanged with James over the years, I had lived imagining it would never happen. All of a sudden, it was very real. I was nineteen years old and I was going to spend the rest of my life in a castle I didn't know, surrounded by strangers and married to a man I had never met in person and who was ten years older than me. I was angry and felt like a prisoner in exile. When they introduced me to your father, I refused to look at him for most of the conversation. I didn't smile even once and I replied to his questions by groaning words that had less than three syllables."

John couldn't help a small chuckle. His usually talkative and jovial mother must have been really mad to act that way.

"Despite my gruff attitude, he didn't give up and it took only a few days before my heart started to warm up to him. When we passed the matrimony tests, everybody there could see the spirits had already bound us together and that we were made for each other."

Lady Ann suddenly fell silent. He saw a fond smile illuminating her beautiful features. "He knew what he had to do to seduce me."

"What was it?" Mitchell asked eagerly

"From the start, he acted with me like he was already in love, and at some point, it became natural and real. I never saw it as a lie. There is no better way to get somebody to love you than making them feel treasured."

She sighed, lost in memories. She put her embroidering in her lap and ran her thumb over the tattoo of deer antlers inside her left wrist: her wedding mark. "I never regretted I married your father," she continued. "Years later we were able to laugh about our first encounter like it was a funny memory. He used to tease me gently about it and call me his 'thistle'… 'a beautiful flower with sharp prickles' he was saying…" Lady Ann gulped and a tear ran down her cheek.

"Oh… Mother…," John breathed. He walked across the room, kneeled in front of the armchair and took her hand in his. He didn't like to see his mother sad, but at the same time, the strength of the sentiments Lady Ann still had for her husband moved Mitchell. He hoped he would be able to feel that kind of deep unbreakable love for Anders one day.

She reached a hand and caressed her son's rough stubble tenderly. "Don't worry. The spirits love you, my child. Have faith and listen to them; they will show you the way to your fiancé's heart."

 

***

The Johnson clan’s gifts were magnificent. They gave their liege a beautiful hunting horn covered with gold sheets and a wooden shield with the stunning engraving of an apple tree on its front. But to be honest, Lord Mitchell had a hard time concentrating on the clan's chiefs parading in front of him, presenting the sumptuous presents they had brought for him. The fine art of the Duncan's dagger chests and the sublime taste of the Blackwood's whisky were uninteresting compared to the beauty of the man with the sky-like eyes. Mitchell had only eyes for his fiancé and couldn't tear his gaze away from him.

Standing aside among his brothers, Anders was watching the whole scene with the expression of someone who thought that this demonstration of wealth was utterly ridiculous. The blond man had tied his hair on the back of his head with a silver clip in a half ponytail. He was wearing his clan's kilt, but on top of the plain white shirt he had in the morning, there was now a velvet burgundy vest under a black coat. A few of the shirt and the vest's buttons were undone and showed a bit of reddish golden chest hair. John wondered if all of Anders' body hair had this exotic color. It made him curious and he couldn't wait to find out. He thought that it was a good sign if he started to consider his future husband's body as something to look forward to. The young lord blushed and hid it by taking a sip from his cup when he felt his own body react to the thought of the light colored fur that might be hidden under that kilt. At that very second, Anders turned his head toward him and their eyes met. Mitchell nearly choked on his drink and he could swear he saw a smirk on his fiancé's face before he turned his gaze away. Obviously, Anders wasn't burdened by false modesty: he was desirable and he knew it.

John took a deep breath. It was nerve-wrecking but he couldn't delay his announcement any longer since the servants would soon start serving the dinner. He stood up.

Immediately, the chatters died down in the great hall and the whole room's attention was on him.

 

"My dear guests," he began, "I'd like to take the joyous occasion of our reunion here tonight to announce my intention to make Anders, first heir of clan Johnson, my consort. I would take him as my rightful husband on the second day of the week of _Eri_."

John stepped down the stage where the honor table was placed and he walked to his fiancé. Anders was watching him coming with the expression of a mouse cornered by the house's cat. Mikkel was keeping a close eye on his younger brother, probably to prevent any rebellious reaction from his sibling.

Much to Mitchell's relief, Anders chose to observe the code. The blond man put a knee on the ground, inclined his head and said: "If it's the spirits' will: I'm yours, my lord."

A heavy silence fell on the great hall, followed by a few whispers.

The audience's lack of enthusiasm troubled Mitchell. They’d known he’d been engaged to Anders for a long time – this shouldn't have come as a surprise for anybody. Since, if the clans' ruling families didn't welcome his wedding announcement favorably, it could seriously compromise his plans.

It took a long minute before a few claps echoed in the room, but soon, all the guests were clapping. John heaved a sigh of relief. The clans that were present were giving their support to his wedding… at least for now. The brunet reached a hand for Anders and helped him back up on his feet. He didn't let go of his fiancé's hand as he led him to his table and the empty seat on his right.

 

During the banquet, Anders barely touched his food but he drank a few cups of cider. Soon, his face was prettily flushed by the alcohol and the heat of the crowded room.  

"I saw you with your horse by the river today. It's a beautiful beast," John said, trying to initiate a conversation.  

"Hm," the blond man simply replied, expressionless, as he took off his coat.

"What's its name?" Lord Mitchell tried again.

" _Ornàn_ ," Anders informed him, unbuttoning and removing his velvet vest.

It was a word from the old Gaelic language. If John remembered well, it basically meant 'music with words.' "Like a song?" he asked Anders just to be sure.

"Yes, like a song," he confirmed.

"Mine's name is _Pessa,_ like the spirit of stones, because she has her head like one," the young lord told his fiancé. "I never met such a pig-headed and strong-minded animal," he chuckled.

Anders offered him a weak polite smile. He looked tired. After six days on a boat, Mitchell could understand that the older man was exhausted.

The blond's left hand was resting on the table and John covered it with his in a tentative gesture. He felt his fiancé tense for a brief moment but Anders didn't try to take his hand away. "I'm very happy to have you with me, Anders. You can move to the castle whenever you want," Mitchell offered with a soft smile. "It's your home as well as mine now. My servants would be at your service and you would have your own room on the second floor until the wedding."

"I'll see," Anders pondered. "I mean, I would probably miss the comfort of my camp bed and Axl kicking me in the shins all night long. The charm of family bonds, you know."

"Well, yes, I understand, even if I don't have any siblings to speak of," Mitchell replied, confused. Was it a yes or a no? It was hard to tell.

 

They didn't have time to take this conversation any further because Lord Douglas, who was seated at John's left side, asked to talk to him. He had to apologize to Anders and let go of his pleasantly warm hand.  

He turned toward the old man who apparently wanted to tell him about the weather. Lord Douglas told John that the priest devoted to the spirit of winter at the temple of Lìnden had had visions and read signs that told him this year's winter was going to be especially long, rough and cold. The elderly man was worried that the nomads, starving in the plains, would try to make incursions in the North Hills and attack villages to rob food and livestock. It was indeed worrisome. The worst of the raids often happened during winter. It was also easier for the nomad tribes to cross Loch Lìleas when it was frozen. John tried to reassure Lord Douglas, saying that he took the matter seriously. He assured him they would discuss it during the war council with Lord Ferguson whose lands were on the border with the Great Plains. This response seemed to satisfy the old man.

 

When Mitchell turned around to look at his fiancé again, Anders had disappeared. He had left his coat and vest on his chair. John scanned the great hall but the blond head was nowhere to be seen. Several minutes passed and Anders didn't come back.

John frowned and stood up from his chair. He spotted Tyrone who was in deep conversation with Lady Ingrid, Lord Duncan's sister. He apologized to both of them for interrupting their discussion and asked the second Johnson heir if he had seen his older brother.

"I saw him leaving by those stairs, my liege," the pale young man replied, pointing in the direction of the staircase that led up to the roof of the donjon tower.

Mikkel, who was nearby, had overheard their conversation and he joined them with a frown on his face. "I hope Anders hasn't said or done anything to displease you, my lord," he worried.

"No," John reassured him, "your brother has been nothing but lovely with me."

Lord Johnson seemed skeptical but he didn't say anything.

Mitchell apologized again and headed up to the donjon's stairs. George threw him a questioning glance from across the room. The long-haired brunet just shrugged before taking the stairs, determined to find his future spouse. Hopefully, it would give him the opportunity to have a private conversation with the Aklànder. 

 

The roof served as a guard watch post. It was the highest point of the Castle and from there; one could embrace all the landscape in one sight. The young lord shivered as soon as he stepped outside. It was a clear cold windy night. Under the moon, Quigley River looked like a long silver snake winding between the hills.

Anders was there, at the other end of the roof, with his back on him. He was watching the horizon to the West:  the direction of Aklànd. _Is he homesick already?_ John worried.

Mitchell could still hear the muffled sounds of the feast downstairs: the laughter, the sound of the drum and the flute. "You should go to the great hall and drink a cup of cider," he told the watchman who was standing beside the door. "Thanks my lord," the man grinned, too happy to be discharged of his duty.

When the guard was gone, the young lord walked to the blond man. He noticed that Anders had wrapped himself in the part of his kilt that generally went over a shoulder in an attempt to keep his warmth.

Mitchell approached his fiancé carefully. "Are you fine, my love?" he asked him when he was close enough so the blond could hear him despite the wind gusts.

Anders jumped slightly at the intrusion. "Oh, it's you…" he said when he saw him. "We shouldn't be here alone without a chaperon," the blond stated after a few moments of silence, "you could try to take me in a dark corner."

It was obvious that the older man was joking but John chose to answer seriously. "I would never assault you or harm you in any way, Anders."

"Good to know," the other replied blankly, reporting his attention to the dark landscape again. There was a sudden squall of wind. Anders shivered, pulling his kilt's fabric tighter around him.

Mitchell took off his coat and placed it gently on Anders shoulders. The blond looked at him, surprised. "Keep it, you're freezing," John simply said.

Anders let out a sort of scoffing groan but he didn't try to get rid of the coat.  

"You left yours on your chair when you ran away from me," the brunet added.

"I wasn't running away from you," the blond objected.

"From whom, then?" Mitchell wanted to know.

"Everybody."

"Why is that so?"  

Anders didn't answer and turned his gaze to the horizon again. Mitchell stepped forward to stand at his fiancé's side and he leant against the low stoned wall, studying the other's attractive profile.

"Do you have any weaponry training?" Mitchell questioned suddenly, trying to change subject and get to collect important information about the man who would share his life.  

"Why this question?" Anders asked, frowning with distrust.

They were throwing questions at each other like rocks. It would be way easier for Mitchell to just give up and leave his fiancé alone, but he could sense the vulnerability Anders' hostility was poorly hiding. The young lord knew he had to be patient. Anders probably felt like a stranger in a stranger land after all; a "prisoner in exile", like his mother said.

Mitchell tilted his head to the side to catch the other man's gaze and adopted a calm loving tone. "I'm just trying to figure out if you'll accompany me in my military campaigns when we're married; if I'll have you by my side on the battlefield or if I'll be longing for your embrace while you're staying here to administrate the castle and the lands."

If this statement had any effect on Anders, he didn't let it show. "I'm as handy with a sword or a spear as the next clan's man," he replied. "I haven't been groomed to be a warrior, but to be the Great Lord's bed warmer."

Mitchell smirked. "With all these years of practice, you must be very warm by now. I guess we won't even need covers on our bed."

 

Anders threw his head back and burst into laughter. Despite the darkness, Mitchell noticed the lovely dimples on the blond's cheeks and couldn't help but grin brightly at the sight. He knew he had just scored a few points in his fiancé's esteem. John thought that his future husband was even more gorgeous when smiling for real. He actually had to fight a sudden impulse to press his lips to the corner of that amused smile.

The wind blew the last notes of Anders' laughter away and the blond man became somber all over again. But now, the tension between them had lessened and John's fiancé seemed to be ready to let some of his guard down and open up a little bit. "You probably noticed that people weren't exactly thrilled by the prospect of our wedding," he said, pulling a bitter face.

"I did notice. I was surprised I must say," Mitchell mused.  

"Well, you shouldn't have been. My brother probably hasn’t told you yet that I'm a poisonous gift."

"What do you mean? Why would you be?"

"Because of my origins," Anders grunted.

"I don't understand."

"I guess I shouldn't be surprised nobody told you," Anders sighed. " It's time you hear the story of how you got yourself the worst marriage match of the whole federation."

As John stayed quiet and waiting, the blond began: "Thirty one years ago, a gigantic storm hit the coast near Aklànd. On the morning after, some fishermen found a wreck on the beach. There were five bodies inside the remains of the boat. There was only one survivor: a woman. She was barely alive when they took her to the castle. My father asked his best physician to take care of the unconscious wounded woman. Slowly but surely, she got a bit better. When she was strong enough to be able to talk, they discovered that the woman couldn't speak our language but a foreign dialect nobody had ever heard before. With drawings and signs, she'd been able to explain that she was coming from some unknown islands far in the ocean to the West. A rumor spread in Aklànd that this stranger was coming from those islands from the old tales. The inhabitants of the islands are supposed to be the descendants of the banished sorcerers who had served the ancient gods. People started calling her the 'fair haired witch'."

 

Mitchell was fascinated by the story, his eyes glued to his fiancé's lips, when realization suddenly struck him: Anders wasn’t telling him a fairy tale; he was talking about his mother.

 

"After a few months, it became obvious that she was pregnant," Anders continued. "The rumors about the islanders and her pregnancy didn't prevent my father from falling in love with her. When he took her as a wife, people didn't dare criticize her publicly anymore, but they stayed suspicious nonetheless. She never really recovered from the shipwreck. Our food, our language, our way of life: everything was foreign to her and despite all my father's efforts, she had never really been able to adapt to this life. She stayed weak and ill. She gave birth to me and died not long after. My father asked _Väm_ to transfer the Johnsons' blood into my veins so I could become his son. I grew up among my brothers as a legitimate son of Johnson's clan but the stories about my mother continued to spread across the clans of the North Hills. Some people also say that I'm the child of some sea monsters who had engrossed my mother. When our father and his boat disappeared into the ocean, people said that it was the monsters that had drowned him in retaliation for having stolen their offspring. If you choose to believe those stories: at best I'm a half-monster, at worst I'm a baleful henchman of the ancient gods."

"Are you really a sorcerer?" John asked. He wasn't exactly superstitious, but practicing black magic using the name of the ancient gods was probably the worst crime in the federation's law code, and the only one still punishable by death. It was dangerous to play with those forces.

"I don't think so," Anders chuckled humorlessly. "As hard as I wish I could change my brothers into muck worms sometimes, it never works."

"Nobody ever told me about those unfounded rumors. I didn't know," John apologized. "People here probably figured out I wouldn't have let anybody speak ill about my future husband. But these are still only stories and speculations; I don't understand how they make you a poisonous gift."

"I know that not all of the clan's chiefs firmly believe those stories, but they are still suspicious enough not to want me as a son-in-law," the blond man explained. "They would have never let me marry one of their sons or daughters and take the chance I could bring bad luck to their clan. Better be safe than sorry. My father knew it would be difficult to find me an advantageous match, that's why when your father promised mine that he would bind you to any of his children, my father jumped on the occasion to secure a good marriage for me instead of Ty. He knew my brother would find a husband or a wife among the ruling families easily. Your father had no choice but to keep his promise since he had given his word. That's how I ended up with you."

"Hm," Mitchell reflected, "I still don't see how it is a problem. The Lords should rather be happy that you are about to enter my family and not theirs."

Anders scratched his chin. "Well, they probably think that having a secret worshipper of the renegade gods in the Great Lord's bed will bring bad luck to the whole federation. I'm afraid our wedding could be an obstacle to your election."   

The younger man raised a brow. He couldn't believe that his fiancé was that worried about his fate. Up to now, Anders hadn't shown he cared much about John's ambition to succeed to his father as a Great Lord. "I doubt it's the success or the failure of my election that is bothering you. Am I right?"

The blond man clenched his teeth and stayed quiet, avoiding his fiancé's inquisitive stare.

"Tell me what's upsetting you, Anders," Mitchell insisted gently. "All I want is to help you."  

The other heaved a loud sigh. "I'm tired of people, mainly my older brother, my cousin and my step-mother, telling me how lucky and privileged I am to be engaged to a Lord and that I should be really grateful since, because of my unusual looks, no one would have wanted me otherwise," he groaned.

Mitchell could now understand his fiancé's anger. It was indeed quite hard on one's self-esteem to be constantly told that your other half was making you a favor by accepting to marry you. John wasn't feeling that way though: he wasn't feeling like he was doing the blond a favor by going on with that wedding project.

John moved to the side, placing himself between Anders and the low wall. He was in his fiancé's personal space but the blond didn't flinch or try to escape.

"The more valuable things are often the rarest," John observed, his voice low and warm. "Maybe you shouldn't listen to the people who tell you you're privileged," he added softly. "I should probably be the one feeling lucky to have such a unique man as a fiancé."

Anders simply held his gaze through blond lashes with his stunning pale eyes. It was the first time they were standing so close to each other and all John could think about were those lips and how bad he wanted to get a taste of that tempting mouth. It looked soft and wet. He only wanted to try… only a chaste kiss. He leant forward but he immediately knew he had been too bold and had crossed the boundary. Anders stepped back in a swift move. "It's late. I must go back to my camp," the blond stated.

"Yes, of course," John said, trying not to look too much like a kicked puppy. "I wish you a restful night, my love. May _Réev_ watch over your dreams. I hope to see you tomorrow."

Anders bowed quickly. "Goodnight, my lord."

"Call me 'John', please," Mitchell insisted as his fiancé was already leaving.

"Yes, my lord," the blond taunted him and before the brunet could add another word, he was already gone in the stairs.

 

"Gods!," the young lord cursed, kicking the nearest wall angrily. "Why did you have to try to kiss him, you stupid goat?" he pestered himself. It was more than obvious that it was the last thing to do. He should have figured out he would be rejected. He rested his elbows on the top of the low wall and hid his face in his hands. He didn't know how long he stayed there. It's George's voice that brought him back to reality.

"I just saw Anders leaving the castle, is everything alright?" the guard asked his friend.

"I'm afraid I acted like a hot-headed teenager," Mitchell whined.

"Really? It's not like you at all," George teased with a smirk.

"Thanks for rubbing salt into my wounds," the lord grunted.

"I'm sure you didn't do anything unforgivable," the tall young man reassured him.

"I lacked judgment and I can't make that kind of mistake anymore." Lord Mitchell put a hand on his friend's shoulder. "George ? Can I ask you for a favor?" he asked gravely.

"Always."

"Since you're the person who knows me the best in this castle, the clans' chiefs are probably going to ask you to take part to the preparation of the premarital trials. I learnt tonight that Anders didn't get a full military training. I just want you to make sure they don't go too hard on him. I don't want him to get hurt, or worse."

George nodded. "I'll do what I can."

"It's the only thing I'm asking of you."

When they got back to the great hall, Mitchell noticed that his fiancé had left his garments on his chair, leaving the castle still dressed in John's coat. He gave Anders' clothes to Axl so he could bring them back to his brother.

 

***

 

Between the greeting of the clans' delegations that arrived to Bràstal, the weekly justice court to administrate and the accountability of the castle's treasure to make, it was late in the afternoon before John could have some free time. He had sent a note by a manservant to the Johnsons' camp in the morning, inviting Anders to join him for the evening meal, but he didn't get any answer. All day long, as he attended to his numerous duties, John's mind always went back to the image of his beautiful fiancé's face, so close to his. He still felt guilty for his kissing attempt and feared the blond man would not want to talk to him ever again.  

At sunset, since no messages or news had come from the Johnsons' camp, Mitchell decided he would go to the river himself. He put the saddle to his grey mare and trotted down the road to the black and red tents. He noticed the absence of Anders' white horse and Olaf confirmed that Anders was gone on a ride in the hills with his younger brothers. Lord Mitchell asked the oracle to pass on his invitation to Anders when he would come back.

Later in the evening, he asked Annie to bring food and drink for two to his room. After three hours of waiting, he had to acknowledge that Anders would not come. He ate alone without appetite.

He was reading a book under the candlelight when he heard soft knocks on the door. His heart was beating faster with hope when he opened the door. He found Annie on the doorstep. The maid smiled apologetically, knowing that she wasn't the one he would have wanted to see.

"One of the Johnsons' servants brought that for you," she informed him, handing him a bundle of dark fabric: his coat. John thanked his friend and wished her a good night. He carried his coat inside his room and when he unfolded it, a piece of paper fell to the floor.

He leant down and took it.

 _Thank you for the coat and the conversation,_ the message said. He knew this neat handwriting for he had already received a letter written by the same hand, accompanied by a strand of fair hair.  

 

This little note calmed the young lord's anxiety slightly but when he went to bed, he still had a hard time finding sleep. The matrimony tests would begin at dawn and he didn't get to see his fiancé today. He didn't have the opportunity to reassure Anders that he was ready to fight for him, defend him and endure any pain to prove to the spirits he was worthy of having him.

He would be lying if he said that his discussion with the Aklànder on the roof last night hadn't put doubt in his mind. If Anders was saying the truth, their marriage would be a bad move from the political point of view and it could cost him his title. This was frustrating. He didn't want to have to choose between Anders and his place as the leader of the federation. He wanted them both. He had to if he wanted to keep the promise he had made to his father and please his ancestors.

John addressed a short prayer to _Väm_ and _Braìg_ , asking the tutelary spirits to protect Anders and him during the next three days.

The brunet would probably be more confident about succeeding in the trials if it only depended on him, but it wasn't the case. It depended equally on the two future spouses and if Anders didn't want it as much as he did, they had no chance.

John cared for his fiancé, but it was definitely too soon to say that he was in love with him. On the other side, he had other motivations. Lord Mitchell was surely driven by the desire to put an end to his lonesome celibacy. He couldn't possibly miss the opportunity to put an attractive man, such as Anders Johnson, in his bed. Mitchell tried to imagine what it would feel like to sleep with the blond man in his arms and suddenly, the bed felt emptier than ever.

 

***

John's eyes shot wide open and he gasped when his bed covers were suddenly stripped off from his naked body. He let out an alarmed groan and sat straight in his bed, ready to defend his life. It was still night. Despite the darkness he could see at least three silhouettes standing next to the bed. He had to think quickly. He remembered he had a knife in the wooden chest at the foot of the bed.

"Get dressed, lad," someone ordered, throwing his kilt and belt to John’s chest. The young man calmed down when he recognized the voice of Sir Cormag, Lord Ferguson's husband.

Mitchell left his bed and obeyed, understanding that his first test had already begun. He didn't doubt that at that very moment, Anders was dragged out from his bed in the same manner.

One of the men put a piece of fabric in front of his eyes to block his sight. "Don't speak and don’t remove the blindfold until we give you the permission," Sir Cormag commanded. John nodded to signify he had understood.

They led him in the corridor, down the stairs and outside the castle. Mitchell knew the place well enough to figure out they were bringing him toward the stables. They put him on a horseback and they rode for about half an hour. According to the sound of the rocks under the horseshoes, John presumed they were following the road. A few minutes later, they changed direction and a few branches slapped Mitchell in the face. They were now in the forest. The young man had lost the notion of time but he evaluated that they rode in the woods for about another hour. They stopped abruptly and took John down the horse without delicacy.

"Here is your first test, Lord Mitchell," Cormag Ferguson explained solemnly. "It's quite simple. You have until sunset to find your fiancé and bring him back to the castle. You’re not allowed to say a word until you found him… so no shouting of his name."

Cormag put something in Mitchell's hand. The young man closed his hand around the slender hemp of a hunting spear. He would surely need it: the forest was full of dangerous boars. "Did you give a weapon to my fiancé as well?" he worried out loud.

"I said no talking!" the consort of clan Ferguson thundered, snatching the spear from John's hand. He replaced it with a pocket knife and the young man clenched his jaw with anger, accepting his punishment without a word.

"Count to two hundred and then you can remove your blindfold," the older man told him and John heard the other man’s footsteps receding in the dry leaves.

He started counting in his head. His heart was pounding almost painfully in his chest and he couldn’t help it. The forest was enclosed between the hills, the Quigley's and the Eachann's rivers. He knew Anders wouldn't try to cross the rivers. Still, the forest was vast. One could get lost in it for at least two days before finding the right direction to the castle. John knew the forest for having hunted in it several times, but Anders didn't.

The young lord untied the fabric from around his head and blinked a few times to help his eyes adjust to the light. The sun was already rising behind the dark clouds. He took in his surroundings. The woods were quiet. For now, he had no idea where he was. At least, the position of the sun told him he was facing the East.

" _Oh great_ ," he groaned in his mind when the first cold raindrops fell on his naked shoulders. He didn't even know if they had given Anders a weapon. John had to find his future husband as soon as possible, because if the bears or the boars didn't kill the blond man, he still risked freezing to death.

He sent an inner plea to his fiancé. " _Where are you, Anders? Help me to find you."_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to the lovely poeple who took the time to share their thoughts and comments with me. <3


	4. The First Trial (the forest)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my very own Katyushha for the advice, the corrections, and just generally for being her usual amazing self.

Awesome fanart made by the lovely Dragon4488. <3 

 

 

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The rain was pouring from the dark sky, heavy and cold. John's kilt was already soaked and sticking to his naked thighs.

He was running across the woods, straight to the East, following the faint light of the sun through the thick stratum of clouds and rain. After he had removed his blindfold, he realized that they had left him not far from Eachann river. Logically, if they wanted it to be a real challenge, they would have dropped Anders at the opposite end of the triangular-shaped forest, near Quigley river.  At least, Mitchell wished he was right. He had nothing to hold on to, except this fragile theory. He was also hoping Anders didn't move from where they had left him, because if the blond man was wandering at random in the woods, they could look for each other for days.

The young warrior evaluated that if he maintained that speed, he would reach Quigley river in a little less than three hours. He was counting on the running to help him fighting the cold threatening to chill him to the bones.

He was truly worried for his fiancé, asking himself a thousand questions as he made his way through branches, dead trunks and copses: did Anders find a way to keep himself warm? What if he fell into the river, or stepped in a bear trap? There were not only bears and boars in that forest but also bandits and poachers. The spirits knew what those gangs could do to a handsome defenseless young man like Anders. All those ugly scenarios just contributed to maintain him in an adrenaline filled stated, close to panic. His concern for the blond man was stronger than he thought it would be. The idea of his fiancé being hurt was making his guts burn and clench with fear. He had a moral duty, a responsibility, toward the other man: Anders was his, after all. He was going to be his husband, a member of his clan, his closest adviser, the father of his heirs and… if John was lucky enough:  his lover.

The dark-haired warrior reached Quigley river two hours before the sun reached the Zenith. He kneeled before the stream, breathless, and plunged his hands into the icy water to quench his thirst. His braid had loosened up during his run and wet curls were plastered on his forehead, temples and cheeks.

The rain had ceased: the river and the woods were haloed with fog. The reduced visibility would make the search even more difficult. The spirits of nature forces seemed to want to test him, putting obstacles in the way.  

He sat on a rock covered with moss near the river and pulled the green leather lace out from what was left of his braid. He tied his hair up in a bun and out of the way.

Where should he search now? What direction should he take? Should he go up the river to the North, or follow the current and head south? What would Anders do? He had no idea, nothing that could give him a single clue. He didn't know Anders well enough to anticipate his moves.

Apart from the discordant cries of jays and the gurgle of the river stream, the forest was silent. John knew he had to go north if he wanted to join the road that went back to the castle… but Anders had no idea about that, so Mitchell couldn't rely on that information. He didn't even know if the blond man had been left near the river, to start with. It was only a guess he had taken. In fact, he could be anywhere.  " _Where did you go, my half_?" he questioned the Aklànder silently.

There was no room for mistakes. If John took the wrong direction and lost time, it could have baneful consequences. He walked a few steps to the north, than he hesitated, changed idea and turned around with a frown. He ended up sitting back on his rock with a groan of frustration. He needed help. He couldn't do that alone.

John's mother had told him to listen to the spirits, that they would show him the way to his fiancé's heart… maybe they could literally show him the direction to his fiancé. He had nothing to lose. He closed his eyes. Which spirit could he ask? There were several options.

The "fifty spirits" were in fact fifty three. There was one spirit for each week of the year, plus the spirit of death who wasn't represented in the calendar. Your tutelary spirit was determined by the week of your birth. John was born during the week of the spirit of blood, in the second moon of the summer. Anders was born during the week of _Braìg_ , dedicated to the spirit of speech, in the last moon of autumn. If they succeeded in the trials, they would get married on the second day of the week of _Eri_ , the spirit of fire. The symbol of the burning log would adorn the inside of their wrist for the rest of their lives.

After a long hesitation, John finally chose to ask _Frea_ , the spirit of the forest. He was on its territory, surrounded by its creatures. If there was a spirit susceptible to be ready to offer its guidance, it was surely _Frea_. He silently addressed the invisible entity a desperate prayer.

 

_Oh, calm and strong Frea_

_You who gives shelter to the sacred deer_

_You who provides shield from the biting wind_

_Relentless and generous mother_

_I'm imploring for your help_

_Please, lift the veil of your shadows_

_Show me the path that leads to him._

 

 

He repeated it in his head with fervor, opened his eyes and waited. If the spirit thought he was worthy, if Anders was really destined to be his, then he would get a sign sooner or later.  

Mitchell was sweaty from his run and his perspiration started to turn cold on his skin. His clothes were still wet from the rain and with the humid weather; there was no way it would dry any time soon. He shivered and contained his teeth from chattering. He couldn't stay still like that for long. The danger of freezing was very real.

The sun was at the zenith, now. John had lost two hours staying there next to the river, pacing like a wild horse in an enclosure. He knew how to find the road, but if he came back to the castle without Anders, it would be the worst humiliation … and it would be the same thing as condemning his fiancé to death.  John had to move, and he had to move now. He stood up, ready to just take any direction and sink into the forest.

From the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of ginger hair between the trees. "Anders!!!" his mind immediately screamed.

His eyes were playing tricks on him. It wasn't Anders he had seen but the fur of a red fox. The slender animal went down the rocky riverbank, not paying attention to the young lord. It lapped water calmly, a few meters upstream from where Mitchell was standing. The fox didn't seem to be afraid of the man and continued drinking as the warrior observed it.

 

It was an old scrawny beast, with the part of an ear missing, but still somewhat beautiful and gracious. Its fur was paler than what John was used to and he couldn't help but think of Anders' hair. The brunet stepped back on a twig that cracked under his boot. The fox lifted its gaze to look at the human who had dared interrupt it. Mitchell's breath caught in his throat for a second. Foxes usually had amber eyes but this one's were of a strange greyish-blue. It was presumably due to some cataracts that obscured the predator's vision. The fox was probably half-blind, finding prey by using mainly its scent and hearing. The animal hesitated. Despite its visual handicap, the fox showed cleverness with a hint of insolence. The young man and the old beast stared at each other for a moment, evaluating each other's flaws and strength, trying to guess the other's intentions: just like John and Anders when they had first met as children.

The predator let out a high-pitched yelp that could be both interpreted as a warning or a call. Mitchell understood it was a challenge.

The animal made a few steps away. It turned its head to look at the man in a last invitation, before taking its leave into the woods.

John hastened to grab the pocket knife he had left on the mossed rock and he ran in the same direction. He had the intuition the fox was exactly the sign he had been waiting for. _Frea_ had sent him a guide that would lead him to his other half.

He wasn't thinking about the cold or the exhaustion anymore. All his attention and energy was focused on running after the black-pawed animal that was escaping between the tree trunks with a nonchalant swaying trot.  Perhaps being alone in the woods had affected Mitchell' brain and he wondered for a moment if he wasn't crazy to follow a fox through the woods, hoping it would somehow help him find his fiancé, but right now, he didn't have many options. He had to have faith in the spirits.

It seemed like the animal was really leading him somewhere, because every time John lost the sight of the bushy tail, the fox was making a loud yelp to indicate him the right direction to take. Sometimes, it even stopped to wait for the brunet… or maybe the young man was just imagining things. He wanted to believe he would find Anders soon.

At some point, they arrived at a large swampy clearing and the fox disappeared in the high grass. Mitchell followed it but his feet stayed stuck in the mud and when he finally managed to get out of the marsh, his boots were filled with cold muddy water and his unexpected companion was gone for good. This time he heard no yelp and even if he scanned the woods for longs minutes, the pale ginger coat and white furry throat were nowhere to be seen. He had failed, lost the track of the guide the spirit had given him and with all this wandering, he wasn't so sure where he was anymore. The sun had begun its travel down to the horizon and John evaluated he still had about two short hours to find his future husband if he wanted to reach the castle in time before the sun disappeared completely. In all honesty, he didn't really care about winning the first trial anymore. All he wanted was to bring Anders back, safe and sound. He would not leave the forest before he had found his fiancé. If he had to spend the night there to do so, then he would.

 

He was still confronted with the same question: "where to go?"  He decided to take the direction of the north. He was fighting discouragement the best he could but the clock was ticking. The sandglass was emptying itself and his beloved was still somewhere, alone and lost.  The night would come soon, bringing more cold and dangers.  With every new step he took, his hope was diminishing. Shivering and worn out, he had covered his shoulders with a fold of his wet kilt in a poor attempt to warm himself up.

John had lived far more difficult situations during military campaigns. He was no wee boy. He knew what hunger, thirst, exhaustion and physical pain were. He had experienced all of these and even more, and had several scars to prove it. But the constant, heart-wrenching worry and the feeling of helplessness was something new. He just wanted to have Anders back, safe and close to him, and the thought that he couldn't was hurting more than any battle wound. If it was that, having a husband, he wasn't sure he still wanted one. He fell to his knees on the ground, tears misting his eyes.

_No !_

He screwed his eyes shot. He couldn't let himself cry like a child -- he had to man up. Giving up was not an option. It never has been. He took a deep breath and rubbed his hands to chase the numb feeling from them. He lifted his chin up. He was the son of the North Hills' Great Lords. The blood of Mitchells was running in his veins: generations and generations of mighty fighters and wise lords. He didn't doubt his ancestors were watching him right now. A calm warm certitude filled his chest: he would find Anders… not because he HAD to, but because they were destined to be, because they belonged to each other. Lord Mitchell forced his heart to slow down and take up a steady beat.

 

When he opened his eyes, he saw the forest differently. His gaze was immediately attracted to something hanging to a tree and that seemed not to belong there. It was a piece of woven wool tied up to a branch. When he took it in his hands, he couldn't help a relieved laughter from escaping his dry lips. The piece of fabric had been torn out from a black and red kilt. He scrutinized the woods around and saw another piece of wool on a tree several meters away. Anders had traced a path for him. _"Oh, my foxy little man,"_ John thought with a smile as he started following his astute fiancé's tartan trail.  He promised himself that, once in Brastàl, he would go to the temple and make an offering to _Frea_ to thank the forest's spirit for its help.

He wished he was following Anders' indications in the right direction, because if he was following it backwards, he would get to a dead end and have to turn back, losing more precious time.  

 

He was kneeling down on the forest's soil to tie his bootlace when he heard an infuriated animalistic squeal followed by a shout. Mitchell froze, throat constricted, heart pounding and sweat covering his spine.  Fear flooded his chest like icy water. The shout was the one of a human voice: a man voice. John didn't think and ran in the general direction of the noises.

He wanted to yell Anders' name, make sure it wasn't him who was attacked by the boar he had heard squealing, but he couldn't.

He stopped dead in his tracks when a dark brown hairy form came out of the bushes. John was face to face with an enormous male boar with sharp tusks. The animal was enraged, panting, drooling and ready to attack.

Mitchell stepped back slowly and his back hit a tree trunk. He couldn't run away. The boar was faster than him, anyway. Any sudden movement could turn the beast mad.

There was no issue. He knew the big male would aim for his thigh where major arteries were. If John leant down, the boar could hurt him in the lungs, liver or any other vital organ.

He had nothing to use as a shield. His only hope was to be able to stab the animal in the face with his knife before it got to him – which was less than sure. The beast jumped forward, charging the young man and John braced himself.

 

The massive animal didn't get to him. Instead, the boar buckled with a demented squeal of pain when a spear pierced the back of its neck. John didn't hesitate a single second, he used this opportunity to plunge his knife between the animal's eyes, because there was nothing more dangerous than an injured, dying, furious boar. The wild pig fell on its flank and let out a few low hissing groans before his pupils rested still and he expired.

Mitchell sat down, his back against the oak's trunk. Trying to catch his breath and gather back his wits. Where did the spear come from? He searched the woods around and saw nobody.

Suddenly, something small and hard hit him over the head, bounced on his shoulder and fell in his lap -- an acorn. "Everything's alright down there?" asked a familiar voice from above John's head.

He looked up and his heart jumped when he saw his fiancé, seated on a branch of the oak.

"Anders!" Mitchell gasped, standing up in one swift move.

"Himself," the blond man replied casually as he climbed down the tree with a remarkable agility. Clearly, it wasn't the first time he had done that.

As soon as Anders was back on the ground, John dragged him in a bear hug, repeating his name with relief.

"There, there," Anders chuckled, patting the brunet's shoulder, "you're safe now."

The lord broke the hug and took a step back to examine his fiancé from head to toe, his hand still on the shorter man's naked shoulder. Anders' skin was warmer than his. What was left of his kilt looked dry. He had probably found shelter under the roots of some fallen tree during the rain.  Mitchell didn't see any trace of injury on the blond's toned body. "You seem to be fine," the warrior pointed out.

The Aklànder raised a brow. "You look surprised."

"Well… " John began, hesitant. Yes, it was true: he was surprised.

"What were you expecting?" Anders snorted. "That I would be curled up in a squirrel's nest, helpless and crying your name, like a fifteen years old damsel in distress?"

"Er…hm… I….," the young lord stuttered, taking his hand off the other's shoulder guiltily.   

"I can see you're disappointed," the blond simpered. "It's a shame I left my corset and my flower crown in Aklànd. I should have worn them so you could feel manlier. I'm really sorry."   

The younger man stayed quiet. He deserved that scolding. He walked to the dead pig and took the spear out of its flesh. He closed the animal's eyes and apologized to _Ang_ , the boar-spirit for having taken the life of one of its children. It was a waste of good meat but they couldn't possibly burden themselves with the heavy carcass. He hoped it would provide food to the other animals of the forest.  He walked back to his fiancé and gave him his spear. "You probably saved me from severe injuries, Anders. For that I'm very grateful. I'm sorry I underestimated you."  

"Bah, don't worry," Anders reassured him, "everybody does."

"I mean it," John protested, "my apologies are sincere. I should have remembered that you come from a land known for its hunting territories and that 'being as handy as the next clan's man' with a spear means that you are more skillful with that weapon than the best hunters in Brastàl."

"It comes from a long family tradition," Anders replied.

"And your family should be proud of you," Mitchell stated, "as much as I am…"

A small smile tugged on the blond's shapely lips. "Thanks, my lord."

"Please, none of those formalities between us anymore. My name is John."

The smaller man smirked. "Your wishes are orders… my lord."

John rolled his eyes.

"... but I'm not really good at following orders," Anders completed.

"Yeah, I figured that out already," Lord Mitchell sighed. "Come on," he urged him," let's go back to the castle – we still have to get there before nightfall."

 

"How did you end up with a pocket knife, by the way?" Anders asked as they walked away.

"I spoke even if it was forbidden. That was my punishment, I guess."

"Funny. I'm usually the one who doesn't know when to shut up," the blond man pondered. "And you wanted to fight a wild boar with only a tiny knife? You have a death wish, probably. Why didn't you climb up a tree?"

"I didn't think about that option," Mitchell replied in all honesty.   

"You take unnecessary risks. You reason like a swordsman. "

"I AM a swordsman," John protested, slightly offended.

"True that. And swordsmen don't have a long life expectancy."

The warrior couldn't help a little smile. "Is this an indirect way to tell me you don’t want me to get killed?" he asked his fiancé.

"Well… that would be quite impractical… for our wedding I mean," Anders mused.  

"Indeed," the taller man conceded.

 

They walked through the wood for about an hour and it didn't take much time before Mitchell found his landmarks again.

As they finally saw the edge of the forest, a fox yelped, loud and clear in the cold air.

"I think it's the fox that led me to you," John told his fiancé.  

"What fox?"

"The one that just barked!"

"I didn't hear anything," Anders replied.  

For a moment, John was sure the blond was joking. It was so strident that there was no way he didn't hear it… but Anders looked very serious.

"You didn't?" Mitchell frowned.

"I think you spent too much time on your own in the forest, mate."

"Yes, maybe," the lord conceded. "Let's get out of here."

 

The men jogged out if the woods and up to a small hill. The temperature had cooled down and a waft had dispersed the fog over the valley. They saw the castle in the distance and knew they would be able to reach it in time.

"We did it, Anders ! We did it !!!" John rejoiced, putting his arm around his fiancé's shoulders and dragging him closer in order to plant a kiss to his temple.

"Stop putting your slimy spit on my face," Anders grunted.

"Oh come on, Johnson. You like it, just admit it!" Mitchell cooed, pressing two more kisses in blond hair, too happy and relieved to be put off by the other man's whining.  

"Only as a matter of survival, " Anders stated, deadpan, "because I'm freezing and you're kind of warm."

 

***`

 

The guards posted on the top of Brastàl's city's walls had seen them coming on the road and the half-naked noble men were welcomed in the courtyard by the triumphant music of war drums and bagpipes. 

George clapped John on the shoulder and Lady Ann rushed to kiss him on the cheek. Like any mother would, she had been worried for her precious son. Then, she grabbed her future son-in-law's face and kissed him as well.

"I like your mom already," Anders teased his fiancé in a whisper, giving him a saucy wink.

"Don't you dare!" Mitchell whispered back with a mock jealousy.

"What happened to your kilt, Anders?" Axl questioned, as the clan Johnson approached to welcome them as well.

Anders looked down at his torn up clothes. "It's not what you think!" he fended off in a defensive huff.

"I wasn't thinking anything," the youngest Johnson said with a smirk.

"Yeah sure, and I'm a lettuce," the blond snorted in derision.

"Are you?" Axl jeered.

"Axl, quit annoying your brother," Mikkel scolded.

"I don't care, Mike," Anders replied, "Axl is just jealous because I'm the hero of the day and he's a sore loser."

"Anders! Stop being a big bag of seaweed," Lord Johnson snapped.  

"Yes, daddy"  

George cleared his throat to interrupt their bickering. "There will be a banquet tonight to celebrate the success of your first trial," he informed John and his fiancé, "maybe my lords would like to rest, warm up and change their clothes beforehand."

 

 

***

 

 

"So…it's here, then," Anders commented as Mitchell closed the door behind them.

Yes. It was precisely here: the bedroom that would soon become theirs. It was here that they would spend most of their time together: discuss, take important decisions, share their sorrows and joys, argue maybe and make love, hopefully. It was also here that they would build the future of clan Mitchell: take care of their children until they would be old enough to have their own room.

A few logs were burning in the fireplace and Anders let himself fall in one of the armchairs with a tired sigh.

John leant against the wall next to the mantelpiece and watched the light of the fire drawing sensual shadows on his fiancé's bare chest and arms. "What do you think tomorrow's trial will be?" he asked him.

The Aklànder shook his head. "I wish I knew."

They fell silent, Anders staring at the fire pensively and Mitchell appraising his virile beauty.

"Anders?"

"Hm?"

The young lord gulped. In fact he wasn't sure what he wanted to say or ask… too many things probably. Maybe he wanted to repeat one more time how proud Anders had made him today, how much he had feared for him too. Perhaps he wished to tell him how attractive he was and that he would gladly take him to his bed and make honor to his body if he was allowed to.

John could feel that the first trial had changed the dynamic between them. With their adventure in the forest, they had somehow reached a common ground where they could start lay the foundation of a friendship, or, at least, some sort of mutual trust.

After a moment, the blond turned a questioning look toward his fiancé, since Mitchell hadn't said anything yet.

A knock on the door interrupted them. Annie entered the room carrying towels and a bucket of hot water. John introduced the maid to his future husband and the young woman blushed when Anders kissed her hand like a real gentleman.

"I left some clean clothes and another bucket of water for you in your lady mother's room," the curly haired girl told him. "You should go and clean up while I'm taking care of Sir Anders."

John squeezed the blond man's elbow gently. "I'll wait for you downstairs," he said. Then he obeyed to Annie with a smile. He was used to be ordered around by his mother's maid.

 

***

 

When the brunet joined him on the first floor, Anders was wearing a plain grey kilt Annie had probably found in John's wardrobe. He looked fine, despite the fact the black shirt was slightly too large for his frame. Mitchell also noticed a little blond braid that started from Anders' temple and was dangling behind his ear, a silver bead adorning the tip of the braid.

"It's… pretty…," the warrior commented, reaching a hand to tug on the bead gently.

"Your servant harassed me until I gave up and let her play with my hair," his fiancé explained. "I think she has an obsession with braids."

"Tell me about it," Mitchell sighed with faux-annoyance. "But I must say it suits you, actually," he added.  

"Shall we go? I'm starving," Anders stated, evading the compliment once more.  

"So am I!" John beamed. He smiled to his fiancé, laced his fingers with the smaller man's, and brought their joined hands to his mouth. He pressed his lips briefly on their intertwined thumbs, in the traditional hand-kissing between two engaged or married men.

The blond kept a neutral face, but this time, he didn't make any comment about Mitchell's slimy spit.

They entered the great hall and walked to their table hand in hand, under the enthusiastic exclamations of the clan's ruling families and the solemn sound of a bagpipe. Through their actions today, the two men had proven to the clans the spirits were favorable to their union. It gave John more hope to win them over and convince them to give him the leadership of the federation. He knew it wasn't quite the time to rest on his laurels. There were still two trials to overcome.

 

They both devoured their dinner like they hadn't seen food for the last ten days.

 

After the banquet, Anders regaled the audience with the vivid story of how he had killed the boar and saved Mitchell's life. The clans' family members were glued to their seats, hypnotized by Anders' voice and totally enthralled by the epic tale. John let his fiancé brag all he wanted about his exploits. He didn't interrupt him and just watched the blond man fondly when he was prettifying the facts and adding imaginary details. Anders just proved he was a born storyteller, making honor to his tutelary spirit. The North Hills' clans would probably tell this story to their children, next to the fireplace during the dark cold winter nights, repeating and modifying it until the boar became a giant ten meters tall monster with tusks made of steel. Maybe, one day, it would be John and Anders themselves, telling this anecdote to their little heirs as a bedtime story. At this very moment, Lord Mitchell felt like he was the proudest and happiest fiancé Brastàl had ever seen. There was desire laced with that pride. He wanted to circle the smaller man's waist from behind, breathe compliments in the crook of his neck -- make him shudder and kiss his goose bumped skin.

When the blond man finished his story, the whole room cheered and Mitchell joined them by clapping wholeheartedly.

Mikkel stepped toward their table, bringing them two cups of wine. "We should raise a toast to your first victory," the oldest Johnson smiled.

Mitchell thanked his future brother-in-law and stood up. "I'd like to drink to my beloved Anders, who proved his courage, his skill and his cleverness," he said loudly.

When the applause died down, it was Anders' turn to raise his glass. "And I drink to Lord Mitchell, who learnt an important lesson today: that pigs can't climb trees," he declared, giving his future husband a brilliant grin. John laughed along with the crowd and he emptied his cup in one gulp.

 

They spent the next minutes in some small talk, until John noticed something was wrong. Anders coughed suddenly and rubbed his throat, pulling a face – his cheeks had lost their color and his eyes were red.

"Anders!? Are you feeling fine!?"

"No…" the blond emitted. He tried to stand up but tottered on unstable legs.  

"What's going on?" John worried.  

Everything happened very quickly. He only had the time to grab his fiancé's wrist to prevent him from collapsing on the floor. "ANDERS !!!!," he shouted as he eased the blond man's fall. He seated on the floor and cradled the blond man against his chest.  

Anders' eyes rolled back in their sockets as he lost consciousness in John's arms. The brunet could only watch in horror. "Anders… please….please, no….," he begged, shaking his fiancé who didn't wake up.

 

 

As he had tumbled down, the Aklànder had knocked over his cup. There was still a bit of wine in it. It had spilled on the table and was now dripping down the tablecloth next to John. The brunet watched the wine splatter on the floor like blood drops. It became obvious at once that someone had put poison in his fiancé's cup. 

Tyrone Johnson was now kneeling in front of him, tapping on Anders' cheek gently and repeating: "open your eyes, brother… come on…open your eyes." Axl was standing behind his older brother, his eyes wide and his face blanched. A burning fury filled John's veins as he took off his coat and placed it under Anders' head.

Lord Mitchell stood up and glared at the crowd. "Who did that!!!??" he yelled in an enraged roar, mad with anger and grief. His head was suddenly crossed by a lightning of pain, like his skull was crushed in a vice. He felt nauseous, dizzy.

Most people in the room seemed stunned and panicked. John's eyes met Mikkel's ones. Lord Johnson looked calm and composed, not like someone whose brother had just been poisoned. It was Mikkel who had given the cups of wine to Anders and him. He was the culprit. Mitchell couldn't understand how one could want to kill his own brother. He wanted to jump over the table and punch the older Johnson with all his strength but his own legs were weak and didn't respond to him anymore. His vision blurred and he felt his knees buckle under his own weight. He was taller and more muscular than Anders: the poison must have taken longer before starting to affect him. He tried to hold on to the table but he just managed to grab the tablecloth and drag it with him in his fall. The dishes, pots and cups were clattering and breaking on the floor around John's limp body. Someone had caught him under the arms and laid him down gently to prevent him from hurting his head.

  
John was fighting the dark smoke that was starting to fill his brain. He tried to say his fiancé's name one more time but it came out as a weak croak. The last thing he heard before the darkness claimed him was George's reassuring voice. "Don't panic, mate. I got you. Don't fight it."  

 

**to be continued....**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nobody's dead, in case you were wondering.
> 
> Thank you for all your comments on the last chapter ! It helped kicking my butt to write another one ! :)


	5. The Second Trial (the glen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second trial

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta: Katyushha :) (thanks my honey) 
> 
> The story is now illustrated by the lovely DRAGON4488. Enjoy !

 

The first thing John noticed was the acute pain drilling his skull from temple to temple. It felt like there were big stones in there instead of his brain and when he blinked his eyes open, he noticed that his head was also pillowed on one. The world around was an indistinct blurred mix of grey, green and white. He could feel a light breeze mingling his hair. He was outside, obviously.

It took him a moment to realize that the grey was the rock he was lying on, the green was the grass nearby and the white was the thick morning fog surrounding him. He moved his arm up until his right hand was in his field of vision. He opened and closed his fist. This part of his body was still working. He moved his legs. No problem there either. They were stiff but functioning. The young man shivered. The rock under him was cold and its sharp edges were biting the skin of his bare chest. John rolled onto his back with a groan of pain. The morning sky above him was white like fresh snow. In fact, he couldn't really see it through the thick fog. The sound of a little stream nearby told him he was probably somewhere in the glen.

How did he end up there? His fuzzy mind had a hard time replacing the puzzle pieces at their right places. There must have been a reason why he was alone in nature with only his kilt on.

He threw the line in the pond of his mind, fishing for his last clear memory. Last thing he could remember was his run in the woods… he remembered running through the forest to reach the river…. but what for?  

Something was missing … someone. He couldn't recollect what had happened. It was important. It must have been important because there was that deep ache of fear and loss in his chest associated with the memory. His heart accelerated, his breath hitched and he clenched his jaw almost painfully. It was vital for him to remember what he had been doing in the woods.

He had flashbacks of searching desperately for something. What was he running after?

His memory started to unroll itself slowly, like a parchment, showing the beginning of lines, shapes and colors. What he was searching for had intelligent blue eyes and pale ginger hair. A fox? No. It wasn't a fox he was pursuing-- it was a man. Not any man, but his. It was Anders… his fiancé. The first trial : find Anders in the forest. Had he found him? Was the Aklànder still lost in the forest? For now he didn't know.

He sat on the rock and massaged his aching face. The images he was seeing in his mind were like illustrations from a book. He recognized the objects and places that were drawn there but it felt like it was a tale that didn't really happen to him. He wanted to know the end of the story already -- to know how and why he had ended up there in the glen, but he couldn't reach the ending yet. He had to flip the pages one by one.

An acorn. Why was he thinking of an acorn? It didn't make any sense! Wild boars used to feed with acorns falling off the oaks' branches during the autumn and it was in the middle of autumn right now. But the boar in John's mind wasn't feeding, it was attacking him. How come wasn't he dead if he had been attacked so violently? Because he couldn't be dead…right? The pain in his head was making him feel really alive.

John's mind was racing, trying to catch the strings of his fleeting memories and tie them together to make a coherent whole.

The boar hadn't killed him because… because… ANDERS ! Anders had killed the beast with his spear. John suddenly remembered the sensation of his fiancé’s compact body in his arms when he had hugged him out of relief and then the feeling of Anders' temple's skin on his lips. Anders had also let him kiss his hand later when they were back in the castle… which means they had come back. The brunet drew a sigh. Anders was safe.     ….     or was he ?

Sudden rage mixed with grief burned Mitchell inside - an emotional memory that wanted to manifest itself, trying to pierce the surface of his subconscious. He had to collect the images that were associated with this sensation and put them in the right order to be able to understand.

Something appeared in his mind: a red liquid dripping down a pale fabric. Blood !?! No. It couldn't be. He knew blood. Blood was thicker than that. It was something else. Wine. It was wine. Not a good wine, though. It tasted odd and Anders' pretty cheeks were suddenly pale, so pale.

_"Anders… please….please, no…"_

_"Open your eyes, brother… come on…open your eyes."_

His throat tightened and a helpless tear rolled down his cheek at the memory of his fiancé lifeless in his arms. John stood up on the rock, despite the pain in his head. He couldn't believe Anders was dead. It was impossible. He couldn't be dead. They were not even married. They had known each other for only a few days. This was too unfair to be true.

_"Don't panic, mate. I got you. Don't fight it."_

George had said that before the darkness engulfed John in its embrace.

The young lord understood at once. He had been drugged: Anders as well most probably. Someone … Mikkel…. had put some strong drug in their cups to knock them out. They lords probably wanted to watch their reactions and to be able to carry them anywhere they would need to be for the second test. This meant that his fiancé was alive and that the second trial had already begun.

 

John staggered to the stream. He splashed cold water into his face and drank with avidity. It helped ease the pain in his head that had already started to go away a little. What was this new trial? And more importantly: where was his other half? If he had to run through the glen to find him, well, the Lords lacked in originality for their choice of challenges. The vague shape of the hills he could see through the fog was enough to give him a clearer idea of where he was. He knew that rock that had the shape of a raven's wing. The Mitchells' Road, the path that led to the castle, was only a few hundred meters away from his current position. He wasn't lost: at least that was good news. Now he had to figure out what he had to do.

He had just taken another sip of the water in his cupped hands when he noticed some dirt on his right bicep. He was about to wash it when he realized it wasn't dirt but ink. There was a message written on his arm. He writhed himself to be able to read it, trying to ignore the remaining twinges of pain in his head.

 

_Before the appearance of Lady Nel you shall come back – not on two feet but four hooves._

 

Nel was the spirit of the moon. The drug had got Mitchell confused and his mind was still a bit fuzzy, but not enough to forget the name of George's tutelary spirit. The message said he had to get to the castle before the rising of the moon -- nothing unexpected there. The trials usually lasted from sunrise to sunset. The rest of the riddle was as easy to understand: he had to come back on a horse.

But it all seemed too simple…  

 

Premarital trials were meant to be tough, usually even dangerous. If one of the two future spouses died during the trials, it was just a proof the spirits did not agree to the union. Better be dead than live in an unhappy cursed marriage.

If the clan's chiefs wanted him to ride to the castle on horseback, they surely had left his own horse somewhere, not far from where he was. Pessa was well-trained. He only had to whistle and his mare would come. If she was tied, she would neigh in reply and he would just have to follow the sound to find her. There was no way the second trial would be so easy. Something was not right.

He still had to try. He put two fingers in his mouth and whistled as loudly as he could.

Only the echo of the valley answered his call.

He looked at the words on his arm again, wondering if he had really understood their meaning. Obviously, they expected him to come back on a horse… without giving him his horse. This was absurd. He couldn't understand what the link between that challenge and Anders was either. John wasn't able to see how riding a horse would help him prove he was worthy of marrying his fiancé

The young lord's short temper started to burst: the residual pain from the drug contributed to get him cranky. Where did they expect him to find a horse in the middle of the glen? The nearest farms were the ones surrounding Brastàl city's walls and if he had gotten the riddle right, he couldn't go back near the city unless he was already carried on four hooves. He could always stand at the side of the road, wait for travelers to pass by and ask them to borrow their horse.  But that was a stupid plan, really. First of all, it was the middle of autumn and Mitchells' Road was practically desert at this time of the year. Chances were that he would wait there until sundown without seeing anybody. Even if he happened to meet merchants or travelers by miracle, nobody would accept to lend a horse to a half-naked man claiming to be Lord John Mitchell of Brastàl. They would surely take him for some deluded simpleton.

There was also this other obsessive question, turning endlessly in his head: what was happening to his fiancé? Was he still unconscious and left alone somewhere on the top of a hill? The first trial had proven to John that Anders was far from defenseless. The blond Aklànder was smart and resourceful, but still, Mitchell possessed the major advantage of knowing the country by heart and Anders didn't. He feared that despite the wish he had expressed to George, the Lords would consciously put Anders in danger to test John's attachment to him and his sense of duty as a future husband. Either way it was working because since the beginning of the tests, all his thought, willpower and energy had been focused on assuring his other half's safety and wellbeing.

But if John wanted to be able to wed the man he was promised to, he still had to find him and keep him alive. He brushed off some dried grass from his kilt and took a look around in the quiet glen. The young lord was happy that no rule kept him from screaming his fiancé's name this time.  

"ANDEERRSSS" he yelled, hoping the smaller man was not too far away and would answer. No reply came from the foggy landscape.

He tried again, louder.

The hills threw him back his own voice, but this time he also got a different answer: a whinny in the distance. John frowned. There really was a horse nearby after all. With the echo, it was difficult to locate the direction of the sound. He jogged up a small mound, away from the stream. Apparently luck was smiling on him, because through the fog, on the hillside; he saw the white coat of a horse, shining bright against the dark green of the glen's grass. The horse lifted its majestic head and looked in Mitchell's direction. The young man knew he had seen that animal before. The last time he saw the proud white stallion, it was led by the bridle to the river by his very own blond Aklànder. John figured out that it was probably the sound of his master's name that had gotten the horse to reply.  

Now the second trial totally made sense. "If you want to ride the man, my friend, you got to ride his horse first," Mitchell chuckled out loud at his own joke, though he didn't find it that funny. He couldn't believe he really had to ride back to Bràstal on Anders' horse. It would not be easy… let's say probably impossible.

The trials were made to be difficult. This one would be a real challenge to say the least.

 

The horses used by peasants to plough the fields and the merchants to pull their carts were rather small, stubby, hairy and strong. Pessa and Ornàn (John's and Anders' horses) belonged to another category. They were owned by members of the clans' ruling families - they were not of those typical pack animals: they were war horses.  These horses were taller than their farm counterparts - also strong but more agile and faster: perfect for the battlefield. Most of them had been captured as foals among the herds of wild horses living in the marshes on the eastern frontier. Men and women of noble descent in the North Hills' clans were not really considered as adults until they captured and trained their first wild horse. It was a sort of rite of passage from infancy to adulthood. Mitchell and Anders hadn't been exceptions to that tradition.

When he was nineteen, John had spent nearly two weeks in the marshes with Lord James, looking for the perfect foal. He and his father were hidden in the high grass when they had spotted a small group of wild mares with a few younglings. When John's gaze had crossed the one of that young grey female, he had known she was the one. He had captured Pessa and trained her without any help. It had been a hard task. Saying that the war horses were less docile than their working congeners was a euphemism. Being born in the wild, they conserved an unpredictable temper, rarely obeyed to any other than their own master and were often even dangerous for anybody else who would try to ride them. John was the only one who could groom Pessa or lead her out to the paddock. Nobody else could touch her or approach her without being bitten or kicked. Even with her owner, she could be quite quick-tempered sometimes, but John would never trade her for any other. In battles, she was reliable and fearless.

 

The white stallion resumed its grazing while keeping a suspicious eye on every of the man's movements.

John knew instantly that Anders and he would not win this trial. If he had to get back to the castle on Anders' horse, his fiancé probably had to do the same with Mitchell's. The brunet didn't know yet what would be Ornàn's reaction if he tried to ride him, but he knew that there was not a chance Anders would be able to even approach Pessa.

John still had to try. His honor, his title, his marriage: there was too much at stake.

He took a deep breath and walked slowly toward the white horse. The stallion let him, not interrupting his grass eating. It was encouraging so far. Fortunately, the horse had also a saddle and a bridle on. If the brunet could just be able to get close enough to grab the reins, it would be a good start.  

He made a few careful steps but when he was about ten meters from him, Ornàn let out a displeased snort and trotted away. When the animal was satisfied with the distance he had put between the man and itself, it resumed its happy grazing like nothing happened.

Mitchell tried again, as silently and slowly as possible, stopping and waiting between each step, but then again with the same result. When he had only a few more steps to make to reach the stallion, it escaped from him.

The horse shook off some dust from its perfect coat and raised its head high to observe the brunet with the haughty look of the beast confident in its own magnificence. John knew another beautiful male who had this tendency of backing off every time he was trying to get closer. "You're just like your owner…" Mitchell grunted between his teeth.

People in the North Hills thought that when you trained a wild horse and succeeded to tame it, you shared a part of your own spirit with it. There was a bit of Anders in Ornàn. If John showed he was able get the horse to accept him and trust him, it meant he could do the same with his fiancé. It was a good way to test two people's compatibility and comprehension of each other.

John tightened the straps of his boots to walk more easily in the high grass and rocks. He took a deep breath and headed in the horse's direction once more.

He failed to catch the reins again.

 

He had no other choice but to try and try again. Every time he thought this time would be the right one and that the horse was nearly in his reach, it was like he had stepped on an invisible line that provoked an instant reaction from the horse and it receded away. Whether the young man was trying to approach Ornàn carefully or to take it by surprise, every single time the stallion was clever enough to see him coming and flee just before he could get him.

That singular ballet between the man and the animal went on for several hours. The fog was gone by now, and judging by the bright sun shining above Mitchell's head, it was past noon. The dark haired man lied down in the grass for a long time, observing his quarry from afar. Running after that horse endlessly was pointless, exhausting and frustrating. He had to change his strategy. Most war horses didn't like chatters when they didn't know the person who was talking to them, but maybe Ornàn was different. Maybe the silent approach he had privileged so far wasn't the best one. John had nothing to lose by trying to tame the horse with soothing talk. He stood up and bound his steps toward the animal; making sure the horse was seeing him coming. The white stallion outstretched his neck toward him, his head low and he let out a loud leery snort.

John showed his palms to him and said, quiet and low-pitched:   _Vec…Vec….Vec..._ ," hoping that repeating the name of the horses' spirit would help him calm the horse down. Ornàn didn't move, but Mitchell could see his body tense, ready for flight. The young lord continued to repeat the same word. He was now only a step away from his goal now: it was closer than he ever got until now. The man reached a hand carefully to take the reins to the side of the neckline but the gesture scared the stallion that squealed and took off down the glen, galloping until John lost the sight of it. "Damned Gods!" the brunet cursed. He heaved a sigh, a mix of resignation and exasperation, and he ran after the white beast.

Ornàn was fast. It took John about two hours of wandering to finally find him, grazing grass on the hill side. The horse was clearly taunting its pursuer in the most insolent way, but the warrior now knew that his voice had an effect on the animal and he was going to use it at his advantage. As he was planning his next move, John noticed some movement to the west from the corner of his eye: dark little silhouettes of people on horses against the sun on the top of a hill. The clan's chiefs were observing him – probably making bets on his chances of success in taming Anders' horse. " _I wouldn't even put money on myself_ ," John pondered bitterly. If the lords were there to judge his perseverance in this trial, he had to at least show them he would not give up that easily.

"Ornàn," he called the stallion gently, letting the "r" roll on his tongue, like he remembered Anders doing when he had told him its name. The horse turned its head toward him, eyeing him with curiosity, ears upright on its head. "Ornàn. That's your name, right?" John went on, stepping toward him cautiously. Anders' horse shook its head but stood there. "We must work together if we want to find Anders," he added.  At the sound of his owner’s name, the stallion drew a friendly nicker. "Yes. Anders. You know who I'm talking about - Anders is your master," John said as he was still approaching, trying to repeat the horse's owner's name as often as possible since it seemed to have a calming effect on the nervous animal.  He kept talking softly and saying Anders' name until he was able to be close enough he could put a hand on the horse's nose. "That's a good boy, that's a very good boy," he cooed as he ran his hand over the white furry neck and grabbed the reins firmly.

 

He now had to climb on the horse’s back. He grabbed the saddle but as soon as he did it, a violent shiver agitated the horse's spine. Ornàn squealed with panic and reared up. The stallion stepped back quickly and pranced again, threatening to kick John with its forelegs. The young lord had to let go of the reins not to get hurt, and all he could do was grit his teeth with anger as he watched the horse galloping away one more time.

He lifted his gaze to the top of the hill and saw the silhouettes of the lords turning back and leaving. Apparently, they had seen enough of his humiliating collapse to make themselves an opinion.

 

Days were already quite short during the second moon of autumn and this one was nearly over. The shadows had lengthened and the light on the glen had changed from yellow to a golden orange. He didn't have much time left. The young lord of Brastàl ran a hand in his long dark tangled curls, falling in a complete mess on his bare back.

Ornàn had run down to the stream in the bottom of the valley but at least he was still in John’s field of vision. "Bloody stupid horse," Mitchell cursed, kicking a rock angrily, "I wish you choke on your grass."

He knew nothing of it was the stallion's fault and that it was childish to react that way, but the temptation of giving up was there, insistent, in John's mind. Exhaustion and hunger were making his temper flare even more. The premarital trials suddenly appeared to him as the most idiotic tradition ever. Two hundred and fifty years ago, before the federation, when the clans were still independent, his marriage would have been much simpler: a few prayers at the temple and then they would have been left alone in a little tent in a sacred clearing in the middle of the woods, only coming back once the marriage would have been consummated. No pain, no fear, no danger… but two centuries ago he wouldn't have got to wed Anders since same-sex marriages were forbidden. Things had evolved since then, and now the clans could make alliances and marry their children with whom they wanted with no regard to the gender of the future spouses.  

It would be so easy to go back to the castle on foot, Mitchell mused, at least easier than trying to make a wild horse obey. But if he did that, he would have to suffer the judgment of the clan's chiefs. They would surely doubt the idea of giving the reins of the country to someone who couldn't even impose his rule on a horse. Mikkel would regret he was giving his little brother to such a weak man. Worse than that; John wasn't ready to see the disappointment in his fiancé's eyes. If Mitchell wanted to seduce the blond man, he had to prove he would do anything for him.

The temperature had dropped and it was already getting dark in the valley. He knew there was no chance he was going to make it to the castle in time, but even if his failure in the second trial was certain, he wanted to get there on Ornàn's back and show them he had at least some honor. He had to do it before the night covered the glen with its cloak, because once it would be the night, the darkness would make it even more difficult to catch Anders' stallion.

As he went down the slope to the stream, the young lord hoped the sweet talk would work on Ornàn again, because he had no other idea on how to tame him. "It's getting dark now, laddie. I know you like to run free but I'm sure now you'd prefer to go in the stables where it's warm and cozy. If you're a good boy, you're going to have to have oats and an apple. And we have to find Anders too," John told the horse in a soothing steady voice as he got closer and closer. "I also have a lovely lady to introduce you to. Her name's Pessa. I'm sure you two would get along really well." Human voice really seemed to have a hypnotizing effect on the white stallion that didn't move a muscle as long as John was talking.

The warrior managed to take him by the reins. Once again, everything went well until the horse realized it had been caught. This time, when it started prancing, tried to kick and bite, John was determined not to let go of the bridle and he held on, trying to dodge the blows of hooves. Ornàn just wanted one thing, escape from that stranger at all costs. Mitchell had to calm the strong horse down as quickly as possible because if he stayed nearby, he risked to get severely injured.

He tried to talk to him "Calm down, boy, it's fine, I won't hurt you," but the stallion was furious and speech wasn't enough. Raising his arm to avoid angry teeth, John tried to reach his fiancé in his mind. If they were really meant to be together, they surely had some kind of soul bond that could help the young man find a solution because as it was now, maybe he would get to keep the horse by the reins but he would never be able to climb on its back. _What would Anders do?_ he asked himself. He didn't understand why, but he saw the image of his hand covering Anders' on the table – a memory of the first banquet, the night when John had announced their marriage.

 

_"I saw you with your horse by the river today. It's a beautiful beast. What's its name?"_

_"Ornàn."_

_"Like a song?"_

_"Yes, like a song"_ Anders had replied. And even now, the memory was so vivid in John's mind. There was a chandelier on the table and John could still see the flickers of the flames reflecting in the Aklànder's blue orbs.

 

The dark-haired lord sidestepped another of the stallion's attacks, but he smiled. Without knowing it, his foxy little man had given him the solution that could have given him the opportunity of winning the second trial, if only John had understood that important clue a few hours before. The answer was in the horse's name.

Maybe it would not work, but he had nothing to lose. Mitchell cleared his throat and his voice went out all croaky and raspy when he sang the first notes. He picked the first song that came to his mind: a lullaby in Gaelic his mother used to sing to help him fall asleep after a nightmare when he was young.

 

_Mise nighean Rìgh-fo-Thuinn_

_Fuil nan rìghrean na no chrèn_

_Ged a chì sibh mi nam ròn_

_Tha mi mòrail nam thìr fhèin_

 

John wasn't a great singer. When he was still a boy and following lessons with Master Sìleas : Brastàl castle's healer and erudite, one day, John had arrived late to a class and as a punishment, the master had made him sing a song in front of the other students. George had told him later that he sounded like a scared goat running around with cauldrons tied to its tail.

Even if the song was totally out of tune, the horse stopped pulling stunts almost immediately. Ornàn nodded, shaking its white mane and nickered, wagging its ears with curiosity.   

 

_Tîr-fo-Thuinn mo dhachaigh dgùint_

_Innis dhùthchasach nan ròn_

_Caidlidh mi air leacan sàil'_

_Mi fhin's mo bhàn-chuilean òg_

 

John stopped singing just to see how the horse would react. Ornàn took a step further and nudged the man in the stomach gently with his nose, like he was saying "I want to know what comes after: sing me the rest of the song."

The young man chuckled. He reached a hand and scratched the stallion behind the ears, like he had seen Anders doing. He sang again. His blatant lack of talent didn't seem to bother his new friend at all and by the end of the song, Ornàn had his eyes closed and his shoulders completely relaxed. John's chest swelled with a feeling of victory. That horse and its blond master were really fascinating and puzzling creatures, he pondered.   

 

Ornàn flinched when John got on his back but the young man only hummed a few notes and the horse calmed down immediately. With a soft pressure of his legs, he got the stallion to start trotting through the glen. He rode to the north and headed to the west on Mitchells' road without much difficulty. The clear moonlight made it easy to orientate. He was about one hour on foot from the castle. He could do it in half the time on horseback. Now that the horse issue was sorted out, he had to find out what happened to his blue-eyed fiancé. He hoped against hope that Pessa hadn't made life too hard for the Aklànder.

 

He rode to the castle in half an hour. Several people were waiting for him in the courtyard: his mother, the clan's chiefs, the Johnson family and a few of the members of the city's guard. There would be no bagpipes and drums this time. They had failed the trial. As soon as he jumped down the horse, Annie ran to throw herself in his arm.

"I was afraid you would never come back," she quaked, holding him tightly.

"You know I always come back," he smiled, returning the embrace. As he hugged her, his eyes scanned the people in the courtyard, searching for Anders but he couldn't see his fiancé anywhere. When the maid let him go, he walked toward the Johnsons immediately.

"Where is Anders?" he asked.

"He isn't back yet," Mikkel told him, obviously trying to conceal his own worry, "we watched him from afar for a few hours this morning and then we lost sight of him between the hills."

"We had left him near the road at the beginning of the trial, so he could find his way back to the castle easily, but now we don't know where he is," George explained as he joined their conversation.

John clenched his fists. There was no point in being angry at anybody involved here, but he wished the trials were less dangerous. "What do we do now?" he bellowed. "We stay here and wait? There are bears and brigands out there. The night is freezing."

"What do you suggest, my liege?" Olaf asked.

"I'll go and find him. I know the hills by heart," John decided, already walking back to Ornàn who was pawing the ground with impatience, held by the bridle by the second Johnson heir.

"I'm coming with you," Mikkel stated, grabbing his lord's arm.

"No," John objected, escaping Lord Johnson's grip. It was his trial – and the trials were made for him to prove he didn't need any help to assure his fiancé's security.

"He's my brother," Mikkel protested.

"And he is my husband," John held him off. In fact it wasn't true yet, but he had to signify that from now on, Anders was part of his clan, and that people had to start considering him as such.

Turning his back on the oldest of the Johnsons, he got to the white stallion and whistled a simple melody to get him to accept to be ridden again.

"You know the trick now…" Tyrone told him with a knowing smile as Mitchell got on the horse's back.

"It’s a shame it took me so long before I finally understood," John smiled back.

"We left Sir Anders near the bridge above Fitcheach creek," George informed his friend.

"Good luck, brother," Tyrone told John, letting go of Ornàn's reins. Lord Mitchell trotted through the gate and down toward Quigley river. Despite the fact he hadn’t succeeded in the trial, he seemed to still have the blessing of at least one of the Johnsons.

 

The road took a turn to the East and the man pushed the horse to gallop. He rode fast in the fresh night, as fast as his own heartbeat, until he reached the little bridge. He slowed the stallion down and let it walk leisurely, following the rocky path as the brunet looked for any sign of the Aklànder. John called his fiancé's name a few times but got no reply.

He had taken the decision to search for Anders on a whim but he hadn't really thought out what he would do once at the bridge. The blond could be in any direction.

John rode a little further and then came back to the bridge. He could go back to the castle and wait until the daylight made the search easier, but the thought of his other half alone, all night long in the hills, was making him sickly anxious.

Suddenly, Ornàn started being agitated- stomping and snorting loudly through its nostrils. Mitchell had lived around horses long enough to recognize those signs, and this one was encouraging. "You’ve caught the scent of a pretty lassie, haven't you?" John told the stallion that let out an enamored nicker in reply. John put his forefingers in his mouth and whistled. A familiar neigh in the distance greeted him back.

 

A few moments later, Pessa appeared from the darkness and Mitchell's heart made a leap when he saw that she wasn't alone. The mare had someone on her back. "Oh, here comes my knight in shining armor," said the rider in a sarcastic tone.

"Praise be to the spirits," John sighed, relieved, when he recognized Anders. He couldn't believe his fiancé had succeeded to get on the back of his obstinate, intractable, choleric mare.  

Ornàn snorted softly once more, trying to court the female. Unfortunately for the stallion, the grey lady of Brastàl just snubbed him.

John's eyes widened with concern when he noticed that Anders was half-slumped in the saddle and looked ailing. "What happened?" he asked him.

"Your bloody shrew of a horse threw me off its back and I landed on a rock," Anders groaned between clenched teeth, "but I showed her that I was even more stubborn and tenacious."

"It's the only way with her," the younger man agreed, "but you know, you should have given up before getting hurt."

"I had to do it," Anders objected as he made the horse stop next to Mitchell. "I don't want to give my brothers a reason to treat me like I'm the family's disappointment."

"Is it the reason why you want us to succeed in the trials, because you have something to prove to your brothers?" John never had the illusion his fiancé was ready to take those risks for his pretty eyes, but still, he couldn't help feeling a hint of deception. Right now, he had other priorities than his own wounded ego, though. Anders had a hand pressed to his side and John suspected fractured ribs. He was also afraid it could hide more important injuries.

"You can't understand," the blond replied, "you did not grow up with three brothers."

"You're right, I don't know what it is like," Mitchell conceded, scrutinizing his fiancé's face. "You may have internal bleeding, Anders. We need to take you back to the castle as soon as possible."

"I'm not bleeding…" the Aklànder retorted.

"You should trust me, I know what I'm talking about," John pointed out. "I helped wounded soldiers more than once and I studied with Brastàl's best healer."

"I know that."

"How?"

"You mentioned it in one of your letters."

John cocked a brow, genuinely surprised. "You read my letters?"

"Some of them."  

"But you never replied."

"No."

John abstained himself from asking why, even if curiosity was devouring him. He knew he wouldn't know anything else on that matter, at least probably not tonight. Anders had closed up like an oyster and was injured, so John figured out it wasn't the best time to lecture his fiancé.

 

Mitchell used the pressure of his calves on the stallion’s flanks to indicate him that he wanted to move forward and the horse complied. The brunet made a sign with his head to encourage Anders to follow him. The sooner they would get home, the better it would be, and John would be able to make his fiancé be examined by the castle's healer.

They rode in a little trot for few minutes, until Anders let out a pained "Urrg!"

John turned around. He could see that the blond was trying to hold on to the saddle the best he could, but was threatening to fall off the horse any second. "Anders !?!"  

"I'm fine!" the Aklànder snapped, irritated by his future husband's fussing.

"No you're not fine! You're going to fall off that horse," John objected, waiting for the other rider to catch up on him.

The brunet grabbed the mare's reins and made the two horses stop stand by side. Then, by using the strength of his arms to transfer his body from Ornàn's saddle to the mare's back, he seated on Pessa just behind Anders.  

"What are you doing?" Anders questioned him.    

"I'm helping you," Mitchell replied, pulling a fold of his kilt out from under his belt to wrap Anders and himself in it so they could share their warmth during the ride. "Do you want us to get to the castle or stay in the road for the rest of the night?"

"I don't need help," the older man snorted.  

"Yes you do, now shut up," John bit back, beginning to get huffy with the constant rejections.

Anders fell in a shocked silence as the taller man was arranging the wool fabric around them. Obviously, the blond hadn't seen that rebuff coming. John wasn't feeling guilty at all – he had to show his husband that he had boundaries, or else, he would never be able to earn his respect.

"Tell me if it hurts too much," he said as he passed his arm under Anders' right one and across his chest, angling it in a way that it didn't put pressure on the hurt side of his ribcage. He held his fiancé tightly against his chest. As the gentleman he was, John didn't want to take advantage of the situation but he wasn't made of wood either.  Having the other man so close, skin on skin, his lovely backside pressed against his front – despite his current state of worry, John had to admit it was pleasant.

"You're alright?" he asked Anders after he had secured his grip around him.

"Overjoyed…," the smaller man groaned under his breath.

"I'll take that as a 'yes'," John replied.  He snapped a short "tk, tk" with his tongue pressed to the roof of his mouth and he dug his heels in the mare's flanks. As Pessa started galloping in the rocky road, John peeked above his shoulder to make sure Ornàn was still there. The white horse was following behind obediently.

John realized it was the first time he got to hold his future husband for more than a few seconds. Anders was there, warm and breathing. It helped steady the young lord's nerves a bit.

 

 

 

Pessa jumped to avoid a rock and Anders grabbed John’s forearm for purchase.

“I wouldn’t have let you fall,” John reassured the smaller man.

“I know,” Anders simply replied, and this time, there was no sarcasm, sass or defiance in his tone.

 

 

When they finally got to the castle, Tyrone helped John take Anders down of the horse despite the blond's vehement protestations.

"George, go fetch Master Sìleas, please," John demanded. The guard nodded and left immediately. 

"Annie," Mitchell hailed the maid, "come with me, we're going to bring him to the guest room of the second floor."  

"I can walk!"  Anders grumbled, batting Tyrone's offered arm away.

"Great. Walk then," John stated, opening the door for the blond to get inside. The brunet still stayed close behind him, in case his fiancé collapsed in the stairs.

 

***

When the two men entered the guest room, Anders seated on the edge of the bed and John took a blanket to put it on his fiancé's shoulders. He waited for a protest. Much to his surprise it never came. Instead, the blond offered him a weak smile.

John had just put some logs in the hearth to start a fire when Mikkel barged in and started beset his younger brother with questions on how, why and under what circumstances he had got lost and injured during the trial. Anders was staring at the floor, his shoulders slumped and his face pale, looking drained. It was visible that the last thing he wanted or needed right now was to answer to his older brother's insistent interrogatory.

"Lord Johnson," Mitchell said gently but no less firmly as he walked toward the two men, "I think we should give your brother a moment of peace. I'm sure we will get to hear the eloquent story of Anders' adventures in amazing details tomorrow at the banquet."    

The message couldn't be any clearer. "You're right, my liege," Mikkel conceded. After a quick bow, he left them alone in order to go to the table at the other side of the bedroom and serve himself a cup of the wine Annie had just brought.

"Thanks…" Anders told his fiancé quietly.

"You're very welcome, " the brunet whispered back with a soft smile.

John was about to go back to the fireplace when the other man caught him by the wrist.

“Mitchell?”

“Yes?”   Anders hadn’t called him “John”, but that was a start.

Anders cleared his throat. He shot a glance above his shoulder to make sure his brother wasn’t listening and saw that Mikkel was busy speaking to Annie. He looked back at Mitchell. The blond didn’t seem defensive anymore -- just worn out, suffering and… ashamed. “I’m sorry…” he breathed.

Lord Mitchell put a knee to the ground in front of his future husband and took his cold hands in his, rubbing their back to warm them up. Anders accepted the intimate gesture unflinchingly. “Why would you be sorry, my love?” John asked, holding Anders’ blue gaze.  Those bright eyes… every time they met his, they made him skip a heartbeat.

Anders pulled a sour face. “I made us fail the trial…couldn’t manage to get back before nightfall...”

Mitchell could see what it cost him to say those words. His fiancé didn’t seem to be the kind of man who apologized very often. John just regretted it took pain and exhaustion to crack the snarky facade. “You don’t have anything to feel guilty about, Anders,” the brunet murmured. “In fact, we both failed. I couldn’t make it in time either. Nothing is lost yet. There is still one trial left, but let’s not think about it now. You need to recover and rebuild your strengths.” He squeezed the blond’s hands gently and for a very brief moment, he swore he felt Anders squeezing back.   

They were interrupted by a knock. John stood up and planted a quick kiss in blond curls before he went to answer the door.

Master Sìleas : Brastàl's healer and Mitchell's former tutor, was a very old man. Only his large bushy eyebrows had refused to turn white and had kept the black color they always had.  Everybody was surprised he could still practice medicine and even walk by himself. People in town were saying that he had already lived on the riverside before the castle was built but it was impossible because Bràstal citadel was at least one century old.

After he had greeted John and Mikkel solemnly, Master Sìleas immediately went to the bed. "Good evening, Sir Anders. Would you please lie on your side so I can have access to your injury?" the healer asked right away. John's fiancé obeyed, and as the old man started palpating his ribcage with a frown. Anders winced, screwed his eyes shut, but stayed bravely quiet.   

"No sensation of thirst or any pain in the head? Any bleeding from the mouth, nose or ears?" the healer inquired.

"I haven't checked!" Mitchell blurted out, ashamed that he didn't think of verifying those signs.

"With all due respect, my lord: my question was directed to Sir Anders," Master Sìleas sighed. "This is exactly why I usually don't allow the patient's wife or husband to be in the room during the examination. Lord Johnson, would you be kind enough to escort Lord Mitchell out of this room so I can work on his fiancé properly?"

"I'm… I'm sorry," John mumbled like a scolded child as Mikkel took him by the shoulders. Mitchell stole a glance at Anders above his shoulder as the oldest Johnson was dragging him to the door. The blond still had his eyes closed and an expression of pain on his face that made the younger man's heart tighten.

"My little brother is a strong lad," Mikkel reassured him once they were on the other side of the door. "Trust me - he will bury us all. The spirit of death will wait as long as it can before having to deal with Anders." Lord Johnson patted his future brother-in-law on the shoulder reassuringly. "I'm going back to my camp. Better leave the healer do his work."

"Yes," John nodded, "and of course Anders is welcome to spend the night here."

Mikkel thanked his liege and left by the stairs, leaving Mitchell alone. The young man fetched a chair from his mother's room and sat in the corridor next to the guest room's door where the old master was taking care of Anders. After long minutes of anxious waiting, the door opened again and John stood up. When he saw it was Annie, he sat back with a sigh. "Master Sìleas asked me to go get cold water and other supplies," she explained with a look of compassion on her pretty face before leaving in the direction of the kitchens.

She came back fifteen minutes later with a water bucket and a basket. "You shouldn't stay here and worry sick for nothing," she told him. "The healer said it wasn't a serious injury. You should eat something or go to sleep, you need it. Your fiancé won't vanish, you know? He just needs to rest."

"Yeah, you're right, " John decided. "It's not like I'm wanted in there anyway," he added, gesturing toward the door.  

 

He shambled to the staircase and to his room. Despite the rough day he had, he didn't feel like going to bed at all. He was planning on changing his clothes for something dressier and find something to do while his fiancé was resting. He would come back in a few hours, see how the blond was doing and if he was asleep. John wanted to be there with him when his other half would wake up.

Maybe Anders hadn't got himself the funniest, wittiest man of the whole North Hills, but was surely engaged to the most loyal one. No matter how snarky the blond could be with him, there was nothing that could extinguish John's strong moral belief in the value of family bonds.

Since Lord James was an only child and all his distant cousins were now parts of other clans by marriage, there was just John and his mother left to bear the name of the Mitchells. This union with the Aklànder was his only chance to perpetuate his name. His fiancé was precious to John, because without him, it would be the end of the Mitchells' line. The brunet already considered Anders as his family, even if they weren't married yet.

All his education, the way he had been raised, all his life had been orientated toward that goal: being a wise leader for the federation, a valorous warrior, a fair ruler for Brastàl's people, but also a loving husband and a caring father. His parents had taught him that there was nothing more sacred than family.  If he vowed on the day of his wedding to love, cherish and protect Anders – then he would keep his word no matter the obstacles. In the eventuality that Anders wouldn't want his love, John would still give it to him; every day, as long they lived and beyond death.

Even if they hadn't seen each other for years and the blond wasn't physically there when he was young, Anders had always been a part of his life. From his childhood up to now, his fiancé's name was on everybody's lips constantly.   _"When Anders is going to live here…", "When you're going to be married…", "When you have a family of your own with your husband…"_ : these were things he had heard countless times. He couldn't imagine his future any other way than the one involving Anders. Any different scenario seemed absurd to him.

 

His conception of marriage had evolved and changed over the years, though. When he was still a little boy, this whole idea had him confused and he wasn't really able to understand what it implied. For him, Anders would be like George: a best friend to play with and go into mischief. Later, when he grew up and his body changed, eliciting new sensations and needs, he had gone through a short phase of rebellion when he refused the idea of not being able to choose the person he would sleep with for the rest of his life. He had feared Anders would be unattractive – that he would have to close his eyes, block his nose and even his ears to be able to perform his conjugal duty. John had subtly questioned his father, who was just coming back from a visit to Aklànd, but James Mitchell was no fool and he soon understood what was eating his fourteen years old son. He told John that he remembered the late Lady Astreed Johnson as a woman of a great beauty and that her son was a very handsome lad as well. Lord Mitchell had passed over the subject of Anders' unusual features but John remembered the strange hair and eyes very well. The hair color wasn't John's main concern. Besides his fear that his fiancé would be ugly, there was also the matter of the years separating them. John was fourteen and his fiancé was twenty. From his perspective, Anders was already a grown man – practically an old one. It was quite scary.

Years had passed and when John had become a grown twenty years old man himself, the age gap didn't seem an obstacle anymore. In fact, the perspective to have an older, physically more mature and probably more experienced man as a husband became an exciting thought. He started to look forward to having a regular and official sex partner that would be truly his and with whom he would be able to simply let go without any guilt or second thought.  At the same time, he was observing his parents and he knew he wanted more than only physical satisfaction from his marriage with Anders.

About two years ago, one night when they were alone in front of the fireplace in the council hall, John had dared to ask his father the existential question - man to man. "What is it like to be married? How do you make it work?"  

His father had burst into a roaring laughter.

James Mitchell never was a beautiful man. The right side of his face was crossed to the chin by a long nasty battle scar, his forehead was exaggeratedly large and high, and his nose had the shape of an eagle beak for having been broken too many times. Everybody agreed that John's pleasant features came from his mother's side. James made babies cry and most children afraid, because of the way he looked and because of his laughter that sounded like thunder rolling over the hills. Despite that, John had heard his mother calling his father _Kena Veri_ many times. It was an endearment that referred to the spirits of beauty and highness.

John had felt slightly stung to the quick that his father was laughing at his genuine question. The young man didn't really understand what the older man found so funny. He just stayed silent, waiting for Lord James to pull himself together. James Mitchell clapped him on the shoulder vigorously. "Oh son, I wish I could give you the recipe to cook yourself a good marriage but I'm afraid there isn't one."

"That's not really helpful," John  grunted.

The older man looked at his child, aware that he needed his guidance. "Well, let me think about it for a second. That's an important but very complex question you're asking me, John," he said, scratching his abundantly bearded chin.  After a few minutes of contemplating the fire, lost in deep thoughts, the war lord spoke again. "Hm…..marriage…. marriage, my lad, is like dance!"

John frowned with his fine expressive eyebrows, the one physical trait he had inherited from his father. "Dance…," he repeated with scepticism.

"Aye."

"I don't understand."

"Let me put it that way. First of all, for the dance that is married life, you don't get to choose the music," James began. "The spirits are the musicians. They are the only ones to know the melody and rhythm – to know when it's going to be slow, when it's going to be quick, and what you have to do is to listen to them, because you can't dance if you don't follow the music."

"So, I don't have any control on anything and the spirits will decide if I'll be happy or not for the rest of my life. That's great," John pouted. He hated when he couldn't act directly on a situation. Feeling helpless was the thing the loathed the most.

"I'm not finished," Lord Mitchell retorted. "Let me explain, will you?" he added to calm his heir's ardours. "When you're dancing, you have control over your own feet, but at first, you are like any beginner -- you don't know the steps. There is also the fact that you're not dancing alone, but with a partner that never tried that dance either. At first, it's tricky: you're going to step on his feet and he is going to step on yours. It's normal. But by dint of practice, you'll get better. You're going to be able to anticipate his moves and he yours. You'll know when to move toward him and when to move back. He won’t have to be afraid because you'll be there to catch him if he falls. With time, it'll get easier, natural even – it'll flow like a stream in the glen. You won't have to think about the steps anymore. The only thing left would be the pleasure of dancing. At some point, you'll realize that this dance is enjoyable because it's yours, yours and your spouse's, and that there is just the two of you who can dance it the way you do. It's never going to be perfect, you'll still make mistakes and step on each other's feet sometimes, but you'll learn to laugh about it. "

John had never forgotten those words: the clumsy but touching wisdom of an old warrior who had managed to make a girl he had never met before the true love of his life.

Now, the young man could tell that his father hadn't lied to him about one thing: Anders was indeed a fine-looking man…a real beauty… but a distant, unapproachable one. John's courtship hadn't been a real success so far. How can you dance with someone who rejects your invitations? Or maybe the music was already playing; the dance had begun without John noticing it.

 

The young lord took his coat with a sigh. He headed up to the kitchens to grab something to eat. Then, he would go downtown to the temple. He needed time on his own to recollect. He hoped the spirit would be listening tonight, because he had thanks to give, advice and favors to ask for. 

After his detour to the kitchens, John left the castle by a dark alleyway along the battlements. He couldn’t know that thirty minutes later, a blond man would be knocking without success at the door of his empty bedroom.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm grateful for your comments and feedback. It helps me a lot. :)
> 
> here is the translation of the song in scottish gaelic :
> 
> "I am daughter of the King-under-Sea  
> Royal blood flows in my veins -  
> Though you see me as a seal  
> I am noble in my own land.
> 
> "Land-below-waves my prison home,  
> Hereditary domain of the seal;  
> I will sleep on a salt sea slab,  
> Myself and my white-furred pup."
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=knG-LVGUs-Q


	6. A Nightly Encounter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my lovely beta Katyushha and to DRAGON 4488, the talented and inspired artist who provided the drawing for this chapter. 
> 
> Also, the illustration that isn't a drawing is mine.

 

Lord Mitchell entered in the large circular building by one of the four doors. The large chandelier hanging from the middle of the dome roof was illuminating the temple's white stonewalls with a soft golden glow. This week was the one of _Tenaim_ , the spirit of healing. There were a dozen of citizens in the temple, praying in front of the healing spirit's altar for abolition of their diseases or their loved ones’. Even after sunset, Brastàl temple was always a busy place. The druids (the priests’ leaders) always left the doors unlocked and people were sometimes staying all night long to pray.

John never had any problem mixing with the population, but he could rarely go incognito either. As soon as he went to the fountain in the center of the room, a few heads turned in his direction. Their whisperings didn't leave him any doubt that he'd been recognized. The Lord didn't pay attention to them, not wanting his presence to disturb their prayers. John put down the basket of apples he was carrying and he washed his hands in the fresh fountain, reciting in his head " _I'm here, pure of heart and intentions_." The power of the spirits must be used for good deeds, never for vengeance and curses, like the sorcerers of the ancient gods had been doing before they were banished from the North Hills. John heard someone clear their throat behind him and he turned around.

"If I may, my Lord," an old woman said, as she limped toward him, leaning on a walking stick.

"Yes? What can I do for you madam?" John said as he dried his hands on his kilt with a smile. He noticed that everybody in the temple was now looking in their direction.

"I heard that you were getting married next week and I wanted to express my best wishes to you and your bride, your lordship. I'm sure she will be a beautiful and brave wife," she told him.

"Thank you. I'm marrying a man, actually," he corrected her politely, "a brother of Lord Johnson of Aklànd."

"Oh…," the old woman breathed, "I'm sorry, my lord."

"No harm done," Mitchell reassured her, "your good wishes touch me deeply, and you are right, my future husband is both beautiful and brave. He killed an enormous wild boar to save my life, and today, he even tamed my war horse."

The old lady's eyes widened. "Really ?" She was visibly impressed by Anders' achievements. "You must be very proud."

"I am," John replied, feeling soft warmth spreading in his chest.

"Are you here to pray for your marriage? If it's not too indiscreet," she inquired.

"Yes, I'm here to pray for Anders and myself," he answered.

"May _Riga_ bless your union, my lord," she smiled, "it's obvious that you have a lot of affection for your fiancé."  

For a reason he couldn't quite identify on the moment, the young man felt his heart tighten at those words. John thanked her again. She curtseyed in front of him and left. The other prayers formed a spontaneous queue to come to him and offer their best wishes for a happy, successful marriage. After he had thanked them all graciously, Mitchell finally found himself in a deserted temple since people had decided by agreement to leave their Lord some privacy to pray.

He leant down to take back the basket of apples.

The fountain was the central point of the large circle drawn on the temple's floor. That multicolored mosaic represented the year's calendar with its four seasons and twelve moons. The seasons were divided in three moons each. The calendar also indicated the names and the attributes of the fifty two spirits dedicated to every week of the year. The large mosaic was also a map that helped to locate the altar of the spirits, disposed to the walls around the circular room.

 

 

John took a candle from one of the basins of sand placed next to the temple' doors. He lit it with the help of one of the burning candles the other faithful had left there. The young man carried the fragile little flame carefully to the first altar he wanted to visit.

John kneeled in front of Frea's altar after he had taken the time to put an apple in the offerings' bowl. Offering goods to the spirits was a symbolic gesture. The priests and priestesses of the temples would distribute the food to the city's poor and beggars in the morning. John closed his eyes and visualized the first trial in the woods. He thanked the spirit of the forest for the guidance it had provided him in the form of the old fox.

Then, when his prayer of gratitude to Frea was over, he went to Tenaim's altar, and after he gave the spirit another apple, he asked it to help Anders heal from his injury in a fast and painless way.

His next stop was at Braìg's. He begged his fiancé's tutelary spirit to help and protect its child. Since Braìg was the spirit of speech, John also asked it to give him the power of finding the right words when he was speaking to Anders, so he would be able to soothe the blond man’s inner anger and eventually, be able to win his heart. Of Väm, his own tutelary spirit, Mitchell asked for the strength and courage to win the final trial.

His last apple, he had kept it for Dref. It wasn't really to the spirit of thunder he sought to address his request; he wanted to get to talk to his father through the spirit who was guarding James Mitchell's soul. The large building wasn't only a temple but also a cemetery.  In front of each of the fifty two altars made of stone blocks, there was a deep circular hole in the ground, the size of John's hand, and kept close by a flagstone. In the holes were placed the ashes of the deceased citizens of Brastàl.  Every slab closing the holes was adorned with the symbol of the spirit it belonged to. When John would die, his body would be incinerated and his ashes placed in the hole in front of Väm's altar with all the other people of Brastàl who were born under that spirit. Rich or poor, nobles or commoners – it didn't matter – their ashes would be returned to the ground all mixed together. The ashes of Lord James were there, under Dref's stone. It had been only a few weeks since James Michell had died. John still couldn't believe his father had joined the spirits for good. He missed him and needed his advice now more than ever. After he had put his candle on the rectangular altar and left the apple in the bowl, the young man sat down on the floor. He kissed two of his fingers and pressed them to the round flagstone, murmuring "good evening, Dadaidh."

 

He didn't know where to start. There was so much to say and so many adventures to tell. A lot of things had happened lately -- things he sensed would change his life forever.

 

"I finally met the man you promised me to," John whispered. "You probably want to know what I think of him. Well…," he mused, "he's like a hedgehog: he's adorable but he stings if you try to touch him. Just like Mother who was like a thistle, I guess."

 

The young lord chuckled. "I know you would have laughed at that. Anders seems to like to laugh at me too. I think you two would have gotten along." When he was alive, Lord James always seemed to think what everything his son was doing or saying was utterly funny. But John knew that those laughs were never mean or derisive ones, they were only a mark of fondness. For Anders, on the other side, laughter seemed to be one of the numerous armors he was wearing to protect himself from the world.   

 

"I don't really know how I feel about him yet," Mitchell went on, frowning. "Well, I feel…. things. Definitely not the kind of things a son should tell his father about," he continued, blushing slightly. "I seriously doubt he has the same kind of feelings for me, though, and wanting to bed him is a good start but it's not enough to assure a long durable happiness in marriage. There is also this fear I have in me – this fright that something might happen to him. It's so intense I'm scared it won't go away once the trials are going to be over. I don't recognize myself anymore. You know how I hate when Mother and Annie are fussing about me. You wouldn't believe that, Dadaidh, but I'm even worse with Anders. I'm worrying about him to the point of being clingy I'm afraid. My behavior irritates him, I can see it, and I understand. But I just can't help it. He is going to be my husband and I want to protect him at all costs. I think I want to do that because his protection is the only thing I can have a control over, because I can't do anything about the way he feels for me. I have to wait and hope – hope he will grow to like me. But what if he doesn't?"

 

John fell quiet for a moment, rubbing his gloved hands together. He could see his father in mind, listening to him and nodding now and then – turning his head to be able to hear his son properly. Since he had endured a sword blow on his helmet during a battle in his youth, Lord James couldn't quite hear with his right ear. John was used to seeing his father tilt his head to the side when he was listening – his brown eyes still lively and attentive. Mitchell felt his own eyes misting with unshed tears. He could still talk to his father, but he would not get to see him ever again.  One of the last things Lord James had told him on his death bed was " _I've been spoiled. The spirits blessed me with the best son a man could ask for."_  John wished he could still make his father proud, but, on the contrary, he felt weak and plagued by doubts.

 

"Is it normal, father, that I'm more confident about being a good leader for the federation than being a good husband?" he questioned his father quietly. "Did you feel the same I do before you got married? Grandfather chose Mother for you, and you chose Anders for me. You found a way to get her to love you, but I'm afraid not to be able to do the same with my fiancé. I know I'm lucky: Anders is clever, handsome and stronger than he thinks, but he doesn't want me. He built that barricade around his heart. It's not like at war: I can't simply break in. Why does it make me more worried to have the happiness of one man in my hands than the fate of the whole nation?"

The deserted temple stayed silent. Even the wind that suddenly blew inside the room, extinguishing John's candle, didn't manage to whistle him a satisfactory answer.

"Good night, Father. Thanks for having listened to me," he whispered, lying his palm onto the flagstone. The brunet stood up, took his candle and put the empty basket in the offering bowl. If he had felt wind, it meant that one of the temple's doors had been opened and that he wasn't alone anymore. It was probably quite late by now anyway. He should go back to the castle and see how Anders was doing.

 

"Hi there," said a familiar voice, as the man who it belonged to stepped into the light of the chandelier.

Mitchell, who was heading already to the exit, stopped dead in his tracks.

"Anders? What are you doing here? You should be sleeping!"

The blond still had his own kilt on, but now he was also wrapped in one of John's big coats and his blond curls were tucked under a dark grey tam hat. Lord Mitchell pondered that he could get used to seeing his fiancé wearing his clothes: he began to find it quite charming, even if he knew it was only because Anders' own clothes were still in the Johnsons’ camp.

"I'm not dying," Anders retorted, "I just have a few good bruises and a fractured rib."

John came closer to his fiancé. He was relieved the injury was just a minor one. He put his hand on Anders' flank gently. "It must feel awful," he sympathized.  

"It hurts, when I take deep breaths mainly," Anders explained, "but staying in a bed won't change anything. The healer fixed me a patch of clay and comfrey leaves under the bandage. He also gave me a few spoonful of poppy milk, it tastes like cow shit but it helps to numb the pain. I'm almost as good as new."

"Why did you come here?" John asked. He had to admit he was surprised his fiancé would want to talk to him in the middle of the night instead of taking the well-deserved rest.

“Annie told me I would most likely find you at the temple”

"She knows me well," John smiled, "but it doesn't answer my question."  

"I didn't feel like going back to the camp with my family," Anders stated, "and since I don't know anybody else in this town…" his voice trailed off.

"I was the last available option," the brunet supplied.

"Well, yes."

"I'm flattered."

"You should be."

  

They held each other's stare for a few seconds. The tension between them was palpable but John couldn't determine what this tension was made of.  There was only the sound of their breathing and the lapping of the fountain to disturb the peace of the sanctuary. John had a strange thought. Because most of his family members were taller than him, Anders must have endured a lot of jeers because of his height in his life. The blond had compensated for his smaller frame otherwise, because the energy around him felt immense – John could feel it vibrating through his own body and it was so strong that the younger man gulped, overwhelmed.

Anders was the first to break the spell. He walked away to the center of the room and looked up to the dome ceiling. The gleam of the chandelier was cascading down his face, hair and shoulders like a rain of light.  The Aklànder's uncommon hair curling around his ears under the hat was catching the glow of the candle flames in a way that made him look like an apparition.

"Is it here we are going to get married?" Anders inquired, scanning the temple with inquisitive eyes.

John had to take a moment for the question to sink in. "No, we are going to get married at Somerled temple. It's two hours by horse out of the town."  

"Interesting," Anders replied and Mitchell couldn't tell if he was sarcastic or not.

 

Anders followed his fiancé out of the temple and John closed the large wooden door behind them. The brunet looked at the sky and breathed in the fresh night air. He felt Anders’ gaze on his profile.

"I hope they'll take into consideration that you're hurt for tomorrow's trial but I seriously doubt it," John observed. He tore his eyes from the stars above to give his attention to his fiancé. "Can I ask you not to push yourself too much tomorrow and let me compensate for what you can't do?"

"You're going to treat me like I'm a cripple?" the blond frowned, clearly displeased with the prospect.

"This is not a matter of ego, Anders," John sighed, shaking his head.  "I'm not saying this because I doubt your strength. You proved it already.  But like it or not: we are partners now. As your husband, it'll be my duty to help you, and as my husband, it will be yours to help me. We have to support each other, and that begins with accepting the other's help when it's needed – to work together, as equals."

"You're bound to become the Great Lord of the North Hills," the blond said in a dismissive snort, "I'll never be considered as your equal."

As far as John was concerned, Anders and him were already, and would always be on an equal footing. He had no intention to have Anders play second fiddle to him. His husband would have a vital role to play in the ruling of Brastàl. Though, he knew that once he would be Great Lord, his husband would occupy a rank considered as lower than his in the federation's hierarchy. There was not much he could do against it on a political level, but he still had something to say on how they would act in their private life.  "You'll be my consort and I'll make sure people treat you with the respect due to your title," he reassured Anders, "and once the door of our bedroom is closed, you'll be my equal in everything."

The blond wrinkled his nose, but didn't add anything else. John chose not to push the matter further.

 

Somewhere in Brastàl's streets, a stray dog cried its loneliness in a long howling.

"We should get drunk," Anders decided all of a sudden.  

John raised a brow. "Are you sure it's a good idea to pass the last trial with a hangover? We failed today's test. We have only one last chance, remember?"

"Aye, maybe not really drunk," the blond conceded, "but I suddenly crave for alcohol… something strong."

 

John scratched his chin, thinking of the available options. Anders had said _"WE should get drunk"_ , not " _I should get drunk_ ", and the young man couldn't possibly let the occasion of spending time with his fiancé pass under his nose. He didn't have any alcohol in his bedroom. At this hour of the night, the castle's kitchens were closed and he didn't want to wake up the servants only for that trivial matter. There were taverns in Brastàl but it was past midnight already… "I'm afraid the Lazy Lass and the Quigley Inn are closed at this hour," he informed his companion.  

"What !?" Ander exclaimed, astonished. "You only have two taverns in Brastàl !? We have six in Aklànd! "

"Aklànd is a bigger city," the taller man observed.

"If we are a bigger city, how come it's your clan that is ruling over the North Hills and not ours?" Anders asked.

"Hmmm," John pondered, pretending to think about it," I think it's because we're angrier."

"I think 'barbarians' is the word you're searching for."

"Are you insulting my people?" the lord groaned, but he couldn't help an amused little smirk to quirk his lips.

"No, no, don't worry, just you," the blond replied casually, rocking back and forth on his heels.  

"I'm a barbarian, huh?"

Anders shot him a side glance, like a cook evaluating the quality of the meat at the market. "You look like one," he teased. Then, he took his leave toward the castle at once, escaping from any retaliation.

John let out a good-hearted chuckle as he caught up to Anders in the street. He put his arm around the smaller man's shoulders. "Too bad you're stuck with me, then."  

"You're reading my mind," Anders replied, rolling his eyes, but John could see he was smiling.  

"You know what!?" John beamed, squeezing his fiancé's shoulder as they walked side by side, "I think I know where we can find alcohol."

 

***

 

The two men were walking around the battlements to get back to the castle when they heard someone coming in their direction in a hurry. Mitchell hastened to dissimulate the bottle behind his back, under a fold of his kilt.  

Two young soldiers from the castle guard appeared from around the corner and ran toward them.  "My lord ! My Lord!," one of them hailed Mitchell while the other was trying to catch his breath.  "We've been robbed, just now, in the guard-house! Chief Guard Sands told us we could take a shot of whiskey after our shift. We had a full bottle and it disappeared. There is a thief in town for sure!"

Anders kept a straight face. John knew he couldn't count on his fiancé to help him out of it. The blond would just stay quiet and enjoy the show.

"Oh, how unfortunate!" John sympathized. He was definitely not a good actor. "I'll send someone tomorrow to investigate the matter. Justice will be served; I'm giving you my word. 

The two guards looked at each other in confusion. Out of the corner of his eye, John could see that Anders was biting his lower lip to hold back a laugh.

"Thanks, my lord," one of the boys blurted out, bowing down to his Lord and his fiancé.

"Goodnight, my lord, goodnight sir," the other added, doing the same.

"Oh, how unfortunate!" Anders chided, imitating Mitchell's voice as soon as the guards were gone.

"Stop laughing, you piglet," John chuckled as they crossed the castle's courtyard, "I'm going to give those poor guards another bottle tomorrow."

 

 

The Aklànder was still laughing as they went up the stairs to the third floor. "So? Are you going to pursue the thief?" he asked Mitchell as the brunet was unlocking the door of his bedroom.

"I already know what the appropriate punishment for a thief is, but I'm afraid this one had an accomplice," John stated, leaning against the door frame, allowing himself to let his eyes linger on the sensual bow shape of the other man’s lips. It was a real torture that he couldn't touch Anders' body before the wedding night. Those big blue eyes looking at him and sparkling with mischief, the virile chin and the fine line of the neck disappearing under the collar of the shirt… they seemed to be made only to tempt him. Patience wasn't exactly in John's nature, but he knew that, if everything went as planned, he only had a few more days to wait before he would get to explore that unconquered territory.  "I still have to think about what I'm going to do to the thief's accomplice if I ever catch him," the brunet added in a low-pitched whisper, not even trying to pretend it wasn't an innuendo.

Anders raised his eyebrows "In your dreams, Mitchell," he said, opening the bedroom's door and escaping inside.   

"How did you guess?" John teased, but he could clearly feel that it was a hopeless one-way flirt.

 

Lord Mitchell fetched two goblets and poured whiskey in them as Anders was taking off his coat, hat and rolling up his sleeves. They sat in the armchairs in front of the fire burning in the hearth. John noticed someone had lightened up red candles on the table and put them around a bouquet of autumn asters in a glass vase. There was also a plate of berries jam cakes on a tray, along with a steaming teapot. The brunet smiled. This could only be Annie's work.

"We were in front of this fire last night and here we are again, not knowing what tomorrow will bring," John sighed, crossing his long legs and relaxing on the backrest.

"But at least, we're sure there's no drug in our drink," Anders observed. "Cheers," he added, handing out his goblet to his fiancé. They toasted, took a sip, and lost themselves in their respective thoughts, immersed in a quiet trance by the crackling of the fire and the smell of herbal tea and whiskey floating in the air.

Anders giggled at some funny thought as he stretched out to take a piece of cake from the plate. "The healer who treated me," the blond said around his mouthful, "is he the same you said he had eyebrows that looked like dead hairy caterpillars, because they really do. 

John nearly choked on his drink. "How do you know about that?" he asked between two fits of cough.  

"You said that in one of your letters."

"I was a grumpy teenager with an issue with authority," Mitchell huffed. "Don't tell him I said that, yeah?" he worried.

"I keep this information in mind, it might be useful in the future," the Aklànder winked.  

"Sorry to ask this again," the brunet questionned, "but if you read my letters so attentively that you remember a detail like that, how come you never replied to any of them?"    

Anders stuffed his mouth with cake and when he swallowed it, he took a very long gulp of his drink. Clearly, he didn't want to reply, but he couldn't hide in his goblet forever. Mitchell was waiting and this time, he would not give up. The blond reached out his cup in a silent ask for a refill, but John stubbornly refused to give him more whiskey as long as he didn't get an answer.

The older man let out a loud sigh of surrender. “Because I was curious,” he revealed, “but you were still the boy I was forced to marry and I always saw marriage as something that sucked up the fun from one's life."

 "You never wanted to have a spouse and a family of your own?" John frowned, taking the goblet from Anders' hand to give him the refill he had earned. Not wanting to have a husband or a wife and heirs to love and see growing up, that was nonsense to him.  

"If it wasn't from that current situation," the blond said, taking back his cup and gesturing in the space between his fiancé and him with his free hand, "I don't think I would have married anyone."

"Am I sucking the fun out of your life so far?" Mitchell questioned.  

"It's a bit early to tell …"  

 

The brunet put his goblet down. "Listen, Anders," John said softly, putting his hand on the other man's arm.  "Neither of us chose this life, but it's up to us to make the best of it." He held the blond's gaze, letting his fingers trailing down the bare forearm dusted with golden hair. The Aklànder's eyes followed the gesture. John brushed Anders' knuckles, barely grazing them with his fingertips and he felt his fiancé shiver.

Anders removed his hand and stood up swiftly. "I'm going to bed. I'm pretty sure they're going to torture us tomorrow again and I need sleep if I want to survive."

"I'm escorting you to your room," Mitchell decided, standing up as well, disappointed that it had to be over so soon, but he had to admit Anders was right, it was very late and they should rest.

"No need, I know the way," Anders stated, heading for the door.

"Anders!" John called him as the older man already had his hand on the handle.

The blond turned around.

Mitchell walked to his fiancé and entered his private space tentatively. "Please," he whispered, leaning down, "let me just…" He hesitated for a second, but since Anders was staying still, he put his lips very gently on his fiancé's cheek. The ginger-blond stubble had grown in the last days and Anders' face was rough. Still, it made John feel giddy and his heart pounding like the one of a blushing maiden.

"Sleep well," he murmured in the other man's ear.  

When he stepped back, he noticed an amused smirk tugging on his fiancé's lips. "Yeah, goodnight," Anders chuckled. There was something gleaming in his pupils. Fondness? "Thanks for the drink," he added before leaving the room.

John closed the door and he rested his back against it, biting his lower lip and banging his head back onto the wood panelling repeatedly. They had had a good time, and somehow he had the feeling he had spoiled it by trying to get more physically intimate with the other man. He was craving for that intimacy: for touching and being touched. What would he do if he couldn't get that from his husband?

He stripped from his clothes and he braided his hair in one messy plait. The pelts, the blankets and the soft mattress of his bed were welcoming but empty. It's just at that moment that the young lord realized how exhausted he really was. As slumber was slowly invading his mind, he thought of Anders that might be already asleep right now. John wanted to go downstairs, into Anders' bed, and shelter the blond in his arms. This desire had nothing to do with lust. He was just afraid of the morning, when his fiancé would be taken away from him to the death-spirit knows where.  

  
They had been blindfolded in the forest, left unconscious in the middle of the glen… where would they end up next? John fell asleep and dreamt of something dragging Anders to the bottom of the ocean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the comments of the last chapter, I think I never had so many comments for a chapter of any fics I wrote so far. You guys are so nice. Thanks from the bottom of my heart. 
> 
> Also : if you read russian, there is a translation of his story here : http://ficbook.net/readfic/2681807


	7. The Third Trial (the river)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING - If you have a phobia of water and can be triggered by descriptions of it, don't read. 
> 
> Thanks to poeple who inspire and help me, especially my dearest beta Katyushha and the illustrator of that story DRAGON4488. She made three drawings for that chapter and I just couldn't choose, they are incredible, so I put them all three in the chapter. :) Enjoy !

 

Mitchell woke up before dawn, nervous and covered in sticky sweat. He got out of the bed right away and put on his kilt – a foot in real life and the other still in the lands of dreams. His plan was to go downstairs and guard Anders' door until it was time for them to face their last trial. He knew his opinion didn't have much weight in the balance, but if the clan chiefs wanted to take his fiancé away from him once more, at least, he would get to see Anders and maybe exchange a few words with him before they were parted from each other.

As soon as the brunet left his apartments, he walked into George and his mother in the corridor.

Lady Ann was carrying a chandelier and wearing her official garments of the first lady of Brastàl. George had his sword and insignias.  John figured out that neither of them had gotten to sleep.

"You're up, it's perfect, we have to talk," his best friend told John with a frown as he dragged him back into the room the lord had just left.

"How was Anders' injury when he left your room last night?" his mother questioned the young lord as soon as the door was closed behind them.

It was John's turn to frown. "How do you know he was here last night?"

"I have my own sources," she replied, and he was almost ashamed he had asked – of course, what better source could she have than Annie? "I'm sure you've been very respectful with your fiancé, but you should be more careful, John," she scolded him, "you know how fast rumors spread in this castle."

"Don't worry, mother," he reassured her, "Anders left this room with his body untouched and his honor intact."

The brunet looked at his mother and at his friend alternately. George seemed restless. "But something tells me you're not here before sunrise to tell me about the servants' tittle-tattle," John pointed out.

"How severely is Anders injured?" Lady Ann pressed her son again. “Was he in pain when you saw him for the last time?”

"He has a broken rib. That could have been really worse. He's been lucky. He doesn't complain much but I know he is suffering," John reported.

"Do you think he would be able to swim in his state?" the guard asked.

Mitchell didn't even know if Anders ever learned to swim and their questions were making his heartbeat accelerate with every new one. The brunet rubbed his cold hands nervously: he hated that he couldn't wear his gloves. Plus, there was this bad feeling growing in his stomach. "I suppose he can swim, if it's a matter of life or death."

Since his mother and his friend were staying in a hesitant silence, it was making the young lord even more irritable. "If you know something about the last trial, you must tell me," he demanded.

"The cage," George mumbled.

"What?" Mitchell asked, not sure he had caught it correctly. "What cage?"

"You know…. the cage of the river docks… it will be your last trial," George whispered apprehensively.

Mitchell's eyes widened with shock when he understood the meaning of those words. "No… they can't possibly do that! Anders is hurt for the spirits' sake!" he thundered, but his mother shushed him, afraid that someone in the corridor might hear.

"The trials are never a walk in the garden, son," Lady Ann pointed you. "During my third one, they tied me up in an old barn and set fire to it. Your father had to take me out of there alive. We both coughed black mucus for days."

Mitchell pulled a face, "Charming…," he grunted. "But the river cage…. that's just plain cruel!"

"I know that Lord Johnson voted against that proposition," George informed him, "but nobody really listened, because his own brother is involved and they know he's trying to protect him. Lord Duncan and Lord MacCallum convinced the others the cage was a good idea and the majority of the chiefs voted in favor."

"I see. It doesn't surprise me," Lord Mitchell bellowed. "The Duncans and The MacCallums always had an eye on Bailtean city. They would be happy if the marriage failed and I wasn't named Great Lord."

Situated at the junction of the Quigley river and the Trasg river, further to the east, Bailtean was a rich, prosperous and populous city, mainly enriched by wool, grains and alcohol trade. The city had always been part of the Mitchells' lands, but their neighbors from Maverrick and Brenn would surely like to be able to collect taxes from Bailtean's commerce. That alliance between Robert Duncan and Ramsay MacCallum wasn't a good sign at all. John had to put an end to it as soon as possible. But for now, he had to face his ultimate trial and there was nothing he could do about it.  

"Where is Anders? Have they taken him yet?" he questioned them.

"No, I don't think so…" his friend replied.

 

Before George and Lady Ann could say another word, John was already rushing out in the corridor to the staircase and to Anders' room. The guard caught up to his curly haired friend just before he could barge in his fiancé's room.

"Do you think it is proper?" George asked him.

"I don't care about the etiquette right now," John retorted before he opened the door without knocking.

 

The guest room was dark and quiet. The few glowing embers burning down in the fireplace were enough for Mitchell to guess the form of a sleeping man in the bed. The brunet pulled the curtains open and the first blue lights of the dawn found their way into the room.

Anders was asleep on his unscathed side, his hair gathered into a low ponytail. The younger man took a few seconds to detail his fiancé's relaxed features and almost felt bad for being forced to wake him up. He wished he was allowed to join the blond in that bed and see how many minutes it would take before John was able to get him hard and begging to be satisfied. That would be a nice enough trial. Unfortunately, the one waiting for them was far from nice.

 

John put a hand on his fiancé's shoulder and shook him gently, calling his name.

"Leave me alone, Axl," Anders groaned sleepily, burying his face in his pillow.

"I can't, Anders. You have to wake up now."

The blond risked to open an eye to glance into the hostile world of the awoken people and frowned, probably realizing it wasn't his younger brother who was standing next to his bed. "What are you doing here?" he asked the taller man.

"How are you feeling this morning?"

"It still hurts, but it could be worse," Anders replied, sitting up in the bed with a wince. The covers fell off his naked chest and revealed the bandage on his ribcage.

John took the red and black kilt from a chair nearby. "Do you know how to swim?" he asked the blond man as he handed him the piece of clothing.

"Of course: I've been raised on the coast."

"Good, you'll need that skill today," the brunet stated.

"You know what the next trial is?" Anders wondered, taking the wool tartan fabric from the lord's outstretched hand.

"Yes, I do. I'll explain on the way there," John evaded the question, suddenly uneasy. He didn't want to reveal to Anders what their trial would be. He feared his fiancé's reaction.

They held each other's gaze for a moment until Ander cleared his throat, impatient. As John frowned and gave his fiancé a puzzled look, the blond cleared his throat with more insistence, making a circular gesture with his forefinger.

"Oh. Sorry," John apologized as he turned around to give the other man enough privacy so he could get out of the bed and put on his kilt. As he heard the ruffling of fabric, the young man couldn't help but try to imagine what his betrothed looked like without any clothes on.

"My belt, please," Anders demanded. Mitchell took it from the chair and gave it to the Aklànder behind his back, fighting the desire to peek above his shoulder.

"I'm decent now," the blond informed him a few seconds later.

Anders was just done tightening the straps of his boots when they heard a knock on the door. The time had come. As the blond stood up, Mitchell stepped toward him, took his face in his hands and brought him closer.

"Look at me, listen to me," he urged his fiancé who seemed stunned but didn't push him away, "promise me not to do anything reckless and to trust me."

"Is it going to be that bad?" Anders inquired.

"I'm afraid so."

There were other knocks on the guest room's door.

"Promise me," John insisted, not letting go of the blond man, "I have to hear it."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"I promise," Anders replied, taking John's hands away by the wrists, "as long as you trust my judgment too. I'm not a moron, you know."

"I know you're not," Mitchell smiled, "you're my foxy little man."

The other's eyes narrowed with contempt, "I'm not little," he growled.

"My little man with the inner strength of a giant," John corrected, taking Anders' small hand in his and leading him to the door.

On the other side of the door, Lady Fiona, the chief of clan Keir and her wife Lady Effie were waiting for them. Lady Keir and Lord Mitchell grabbed each other's forearm in greeting. Lady Effie curtseyed and Anders bowed with respect.

"You are expected at the river bank," Lady Fiona told them.

As they followed the ladies down the stairs, Anders threw his future husband questioning side glances but Mitchell, since he wasn't supposed to know what the trial was, kept a straight face and stayed quiet. He wanted to reassure his fiancé but felt like saying anything soothing would be a lie.

The women led them to the castle’s courtyard where two servants were trying their best to restrain a white stallion and a grey mare with long leashes.

"That's enough, lad, calm down now," Anders ordered as he took the leash of his horse from the servant who was too happy to be allowed to go away from the white beast. Ornàn obeyed his master and Anders patted him under the chin gently, pressing a kiss between the stallion's eyes as John got on Pessa. Anders climbed into his saddle and the guards at the courtyards' door stepped out of the way when the two men stormed out on their horses.

They galloped down the road in the direction of the docks of the Quigley river.  Anders tried to catch his future husband's attention, calling his last name, but the other man ignored him, knowing what would be the blond man's question.  At some point, Anders put Ornàn on the mare's way on purpose, forcing Mitchell to slow his horse down. Pessa neighed with frustration but complied.

"Are you going to tell me what's going on?" the Aklànder asked him.

"We failed yesterday's trial," John answered. "You can be sure that whatever they had initially planned for today, they changed it during the night…. and certainly not to make it easier for us."

"Why would they do that?"

"They doubt me," the brunet groaned. "It's not just our union that is tested, it's me as well. They don't want an incapable youngling at the head of the federation."

Anders eyed his betrothed with wariness. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but your father was not much older than you are when he became Great Lord."

"You're right," Mitchell conceded, "but with every new succession, the chiefs see an opportunity to take the place at the head of the federation. I'm more likely to be elected because of the blood that flows in my veins, but it's still an election and I have rivals. For now they don't let it show too much, but if I don't give them a proof I really am my father's son in every way, they will defy me openly."

"You're the man who routed a raid of two hundred nomads with a contingent of fifty men during the battle of Greenlea. I don't know what bigger proof they need," Anders pointed out.

This praise made John smile slightly. "You heard about my military exploits, did you?"

The blond man rolled his eyes. "Trust me, I was informed every time you dropped your spoon," he sighed.

 

 

Their conversation couldn't go any further since they were already arriving. "There are a lot of people here this morning," Anders commented as they caught the sight of the riverdocks. "Is there a distribution of free wine and I haven't been informed?" the Aklànder ironized, scanning the compact crowd of curious citizens massed near the river. They had woken up before dawn to see their Lord accomplish his last premarital trial and to get to catch a glimpse of the fair-haired fiancé everybody was talking about.

They rode through the crowd that parted to let them pass and reach the docks. George and Lady Ann were already there along with the clans' ruling families and they welcomed the two men when John and Anders stepped down their horses. John tied Ornàn and Pessa to a wood pole as the Johnson brothers were wishing good luck to the blond man.

They didn't have much time to talk to their families. Lady Ann squeezed her son's hand as Annie whispered him a blessing and planted a kiss on his cheek.

A man from the Duncan clan, Lord Robert's nephew, bowed in front of the brunet and his fiancé. "Lord Mitchell, Sir Johnson, this way please," he enjoined them to follow him down one of the docks to a little boat.  "You have to get into the boat," the young Duncan instructed.

Anders was the first to get in and he held out his hand to help John even if with his long legs, the taller man didn't really need it. He still took his fiancé's hand and once in the boat, he didn't let go of it and laced his fingers with his other half's. Lord Robert's nephew took the oars and as the young man drove the boat away from the shore, John saw more and more confusion painting the Aklànder's features. "Where is he taking us?" Anders asked his fiancé.

John only pointed his finger to a spot two hundred meters downstream. There were several cranes and hoists around the docks to lift the goods out of the boats, but this one was standing in the middle of the Quigley river like a baleful gallows. Above the waterline, at the end of a massive rusty chain was hanging a large cage. The metal structure was separated in two compartments or cells and could contain up to ten prisoners.

The blond man's gaze followed the silent indication. "Oh, you're kidding me," he breathed as his face suddenly went pale.

"I wish I was," John whispered back.  

 

 

The cage hadn't been used for a long time now, not since the last time Brastàl's justice court had executed a man accused of witchcraft and devotion to the ancient gods. The last execution in Brastàl had been performed when John's grandfather was still a boy. Every city had still a cage like this one. The brunet knew that long ago, it had also been used to torture and extract confessions out of all kinds of criminals. The principle was simple. The prisoners were locked up in the cage. To every link of the chain were set little iron spindles that acted as stoppers. Once the hoist was unblocked, with the weight of the cage and the people inside, the spindles were twisting and breaking one by one in the pulley. The cage was slowly sinking into the river, drowning the criminals.   

"They are clearly trying to send a message," Anders grunted, his jaw tense with anger. "They think I'm a sorcerer."

"We can't know if that is the chiefs' real intention," Mitchell replied. "But we are going to show them we have the spirits on our side. If we get out of there alive, which we will, they won't be able to deny the legitimacy of our union." As he said those words, he wished they were true. The only positive point was that their trial would be done before sunset for sure.

John let go of Anders' hand reluctantly when Duncan made the boat stop just under the cage. He took a key from a lace around his neck and unlocked the two trapdoors at the bottom of the cage. "Please get in," he told the two men.

"With pleasure," Anders snorted as he climbed in his half of the cage through the opened hatch. When John had taken place in his own compartment, the servant closed the trapdoors and locked them up from underneath with new padlocks he had just taken from out of his pouch. John wondered for a second why the young man hadn't used the ones that were already there before. As soon as he was done, Lord Robert's nephew drove the boat to the vertical pole of the crane and pulled on the metal bar blocking the hoist. Immediately, the cage dropped down with a squeaking. The young man wished them good luck and receded in his boat in the direction of the riverbank.

John looked down at the river under his feet through the bars of the cage's floor and felt slightly nauseous. While he wasn't exactly afraid of water, he still didn't like it a lot either. When he was young, he had fallen between the hulls of two boats moored side by side to a quay. Even now, he could remember the panic he had felt, crushed between the boats and struggling in the cold water before a watchful fisherman grabbed him by the collar and pulled him out. The cold: that was something else he didn't look forward to. The Quigley river was always cold and nobody would be foolish enough to swim in it in the middle of autumn. Anders and he would probably not have any other choice. He gulped at the thought.

While John was stuck in his fearful reminiscence and pessimistic musings, Anders had been more proactive. "There is a key tied to the chain above our heads," the Aklànder pointed out. Indeed, as Mitchell lifted his head, he noticed the key, hanging on a string and tied up to a link of the chain.

Another stopper broke above their heads with a resounding clang. The cage dropped again, hurling them closer to the surface.

Mitchell climbed to the side of the cage and stretched an arm through the grate, trying to figure out how he could get to the key.

"It's not worth the trouble; you'll never be able to reach it from inside," Anders stated. "But I'm pretty sure there is another key on this buoy just there."

John stepped back to the floor to inspect said buoy made of inflated seal skin and floating not far from there. The brunet hadn't noticed it at first because there were several buoys on the river to guide the boats…. but the blond man's keen eyes didn't seem to miss any clues.

"Yes! There is a key attached to it! I see it from here,"Mitchell confirmed when he caught the sight of the key's reflection on the water.  "We just have to wait for the cage to get low enough so we can take it."

"Why are there two keys?" Anders pondered, sotto voce, like he was speaking to himself.

"I don't know. Maybe in case we can't grab the one in the water," Mitchell suggested. It seemed a bit too easy and John could see the same silent concern mirroring on his fiancé's handsome face 

Anders didn't seem to have listened to his theory and was now inspecting the lock in his part of the cage. To make the cage more difficult to escape, the trapdoors were made in a way that the one freeing John could only be opened from Anders' side of the cage and vice versa. Anders couldn't reach the padlock that was keeping him prisoner because only Mitchell had access to it. For now it didn't really matter though because they didn't have a key at all.  

Another stopper broke with a clank.  Soon they would get wet. The key on the buoy was nearly in Mitchell's reach. The floating seal skin was closer to the blond's half of the cage but John still crushed his shoulder against the bars and stretched his arm out. As soon as another spindle would relinquish, he would be able to grab it.

Anders was still examining the padlock keeping Mitchell's trapdoor closed, "Damned gods!" he cursed.

Mitchell snapped his head around to look at his fiancé.

"Oh the nasty buggers !!!," the blond swore again , "I can't believe it!!!"

The cage dropped again. John didn't have time to react. Anders threw himself across the cage to snatch the key from the buoy before the brunet could take it.

"Why did you do that?" John asked, confused, as he stood up. The edge of his kilt was wet and water had soaked his boots: it was cold and he shivered, but John expected worse for this time of the year.

"I know these padlocks and those keys. The locksmiths make things like these in Aklànd. They are rigged ones," the blond man explained," they are made for a single use. Once you turn the key in the padlock, it unlocks it but the key stays stuck in it and you can't use it again."

Mitchell frowned. It seemed absurd but he chose to trust his other half. "And which trapdoor is this one supposed to open?" he inquired.

"It could fit in both most probably… that's the catch."

Yes. There was indeed a catch. They had one key and two trapdoors to open: which one would they open first? Anders wasn't the only one who had quick reflexes and as soon as the realization hit John, he threw an arm through the bars separating their sides of the cage and he grabbed the older man's forearm. He pulled him against the railings without delicacy. Anders let out a groan of pain and the brunet felt bad for hurting him but he couldn't let his fiancé do what he knew he was planning.

"Anders! Give me that key!" John ordered in a threatening tone as the cage sank in the river a little more.

"Don't be stupid, Mitchell," the other retorted, keeping it away from the brunet's reach. "They would never forgive me if I let you drown. You are the former Great Lord's only son: your life is worth more than mine."

"I don't care what they think!" the younger man roared, "You are my family. I can't let you do that!"

"While we are arguing we are losing time," Anders pointed out. The spindles above their heads were breaking in the pulley one by one at a regular rhythm, like the ticking of a deadly clock. They had now water to the waist but John was still refusing to loosen his grip around his fiancé's torso. "Let me go and open your damn trapdoor!" Anders insisted in an angry shout.

"You will not do that," John gritted through his teeth in the aklànder's ear, "you will simply give me that key!"

"It's too late, my decision is taken," the blond man stated, struggling in the taller man's clutching embrace, " If you keep me, we're going to die together, is it what you want?"

"I think I'd prefer that. Stop trying to manipulate me and pass me the bloody key!!! You gave me your word, Anders, you promised!"

"And you promised to trust my judgment too!" he reminded him. "Don't you see that it's our only option? You are taller and I'm injured. If you get out of here first, you have more chance to be able to reach the other key up there and maybe, be able to unlock my trapdoor. If you get me out first, there is a real possibility that I won't be able to free you, and I don't want to take that risk. My father saved yours, now I'm doing the same for you. It seems like it's the fate the spirits chose for us Johnsons."  

Even if the heartbreak and the helplessness he was feeling at this moment were too atrocious to be described, he couldn't deny the wisdom of Anders' analysis. His heart was telling him to let Anders out first and sacrifice himself, but his head was screaming that he would probably be quicker to get the other key and that it was the only way that at least one of them could get out of there alive. John let out a cry of frustration, like the howling of a wounded dog, as he let go of his fiancé against his heart's will. A move had to be made or they would both die indeed.

Just as he freed his fiancé from his arms, the cage trembled and sank some more. Anders had water to the shoulders and Mitchell to the middle of his chest. The blond man had to dive under the water to be able to reach the padlock. After a few anxious seconds that John lost the sight of his fiancé under the water, he knew Anders had succeeded to open the trapdoor when he felt the bottom of the cage shirk under his feet. The aklànder reappeared in a splash of water.

"What are you doing!?" Anders shouted when he saw that the brunet was still there. "It's opened! You're free! Get out of here!"

John hesitated. He hated the idea of leaving his future husband in there alone, but his other half was right, their only hope was the other key and only he could get it now. The young lord took a courageous breath and submerged himself in the cold water. As he opened his eyes and made his way out of the trap door, he thanked the spirits that the trial took place in the crystal clear waters of the Quigley river and not in the muddy and troubled ones of the Eachann river.

 

"Mitchell!"  That's the first thing John heard when he emerged out. It was his fiancé calling him from inside the cage. "I'm here," the brunet reassured his other half as he swam toward the blond man who had water to the chin and was holding on to the bars to keep his head above the waterline.

The next thing John would have to do was to climb on the top of the metal structure to get the key. He suddenly realized that by doing it, he would add weight to the cage: making it sink faster and Anders with it. He got closer to the blond and cupped his face through the bars.

"My love," he said, urging Anders to listen to him, "don't panic. Take a very deep breath when I give you the signal. I'll be there very soon to take you out."

"Make it quick, yeah?" Anders enjoined him, lifting his chin some more to be able to breathe.

"I promise," John assured him, rubbing his fiancé's rough cheek with his thumb, "I won't let you drown."

"I know," was the trustful reply.

The brunet was not able to tear his gaze away from the anxious blue orbs staring back at him but he didn't have time to ponder indefinitely. He took a look at the chain above his head and saw that another metal stopper was about to break. "NOW!" he ordered, letting go of the Aklànder's face. Anders gasped and took a gulp of air. The young lord used all the strength left in his arms and legs to climb on the top of the cage, trying to ignore the fear stabbing him in the guts when he saw Anders' head disappearing under his feet in a whirlpool of water and blond hair. He stood up and tried to grab the key but despite the fact he was tall, it was still out of reach. John could hear the exclamations of the crowd on the river bank. He looked in the direction of the docks for a split second when he heard Axl screaming his big brother's name, struggling to get out of Tyrone and Olaf's grip as they were trying to keep the boy from jumping into the water.

The young lord grabbed the heavy chain above his head and flexed his biceps. He climbed up the chain, cursing as his wet boots slipped on the links. Every second Anders was under the water was a second too many. John arm muscles were burning from the effort but he didn't really feel it. Pain and cold were foreign concepts to him at that moment. There was only one thing existing: this key that he had to get. The weight and movement he was submitting the chain to made three stoppers break one after the other as the cage sank even deeper in the river.  When John closed his fist around the key, he pulled on it with all his strength to tear up the string tying it to the chain.

When he climbed down and put his feet on the top of the cage again, he had water mid-calves. Now he had to get to the bottom to free Anders without losing any more time. He took a deep breath, ready to dive in the river but he lost ground and one of his feet sank through the cage's top to the ankle. He tried to take his foot out but his boot was stuck there between two metal bars. " _No, no, no, no, nooooo…"_ Panic crushed his chest in its icy vice. John could now understand what could be the thoughts and feelings of a mother fox that has babies in its den and suddenly realizes she is caught in a trap. He pulled on his leg to the point of inflicting himself pain by twisting his ankle in an unnatural angle. He was truly stuck. He crouched down and plunged his shaking hands in the water to undo the straps of his boot. The ruthless seconds were passing, one after another. John too wanted to wail Anders' name, just like Axl he could still hear brawling from the docks. But screaming was useless, it would not make Anders _breath_ _e_.

He pulled his foot from the boot and didn't take the time to get rid of the other one, even if he knew it would make it uneasy to swim with a boot and a naked foot. He filled his lungs with air at full capacity and he dived. The river grabbed him in its freezing embrace and the first thing he did was to check on his fiancé. Anders was still in the cage, floating with his back to the cage's ceiling, totally motionless. John realized with horror that it was maybe too late to save him. Desperate, he grabbed the cage with one hand and reached his other arm through it to seize Anders' belt. The blond man opened his eyes and grasped Mitchell' bicep. He was still alive but for how long? John could see that the Aklànder was in distress and would probably not have enough breath to stay conscious until the brunet unlocked the trapdoor… and dragging an unconscious man out of there would be very difficult.

John caught his fiancé by the back of the neck firmly and dragged him closer. Anders tried to struggle but the younger man was stronger. He pulled the blond man toward him until his face was crushed against the metal bars. Then, John tilted his head to the side and pressed his lips to Anders' almost violently as the smaller man was still trying to push him away.

Anders stopped fighting and relaxed a bit when he understood what his fiancé was trying to do. He parted his lips slightly, allowing John to insufflate air into his mouth. Once the brunet had exhaled all the content of his lungs between Anders' lips, he went to the surface to take another puff of air. He plunged back under the water at once, and this time, when he got to his fiancé, the blond was waiting for him and it was Anders who sealed his lips to his, eager to breathe. When John anchored himself with his hand on the blond' neck again, he rubbed it gently in what he hoped was a reassuring gesture. He also wished that the next time he would get to put his lips on the other man's; it would be in less stressing and more agreeable circumstances.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He let go of Anders and kicked his feet to get back to the surface once more. This time, he did not give air to the other man but he dived deeper and reached the bottom of the cage in five breaststrokes, the key tucked between his teeth. Anders swam down to join him there. John took the key and shoved it in the lock's hole, praying all the living spirits it would work.

The trapdoor unlocked and opened in a creaking. John pushed the hatch out of the way to allow his fiancé to get out of his prison. Once he was sure his future husband was out of the cage, Mitchell followed the light of the sun back to the surface. "Anndeers!" he called as soon as his head was out of the water. He looked around and couldn't see the other man. A few too long and atrocious seconds later, the blond head appeared. The aklànder gasped for air and coughed as he swam to the chain in order to have something to hold on to, take a break and get back to normal breathing. Mitchell joined him and circled the smaller man's waist with his arm. "You're safe now, it's over, just breath," he told him, Anders nodded slightly as John rested his forehead against his temple with relief.

All of a sudden, as the adrenaline died down, John felt weak. His whole body started shaking and his teeth clattering. It was odd since the water didn't seem cold anymore but strangely warm. He needed to sleep and he needed it now. He couldn't feel his hands or his feet anymore. It was like his head was slowly filling with fog.

"Are you fine?" he heard his fiancé say like an echo. "Your lips are blue and you're shaking."

"I'm fine, let me just rest here for a bit," he managed to reply, even if his own voice sounded weird to his ears.

"No. You can't stay here. You're going into shock and the cold will put you to sleep and kill you. We have to get you out of the water," Anders pointed out. He was probably right, Mitchell pondered. The tall brunet was only skin, bones and muscles – nothing good to keep his warmth. His fiancé on the other hand, stockier and smaller, had less suffered from the cold even if he had been in the water longer than him. They probably couldn't count on the help of the people on the river bank. Going back to the land was also part of their trial obviously.

"Are you going to be able to swim?" the blond man asked him with apprehension.

"Yes," John lied. The river bank was only a hundred meters away but it seemed unattainable.

"Come on," Anders encouraged him, already swimming away in the direction of the docks. Mitchell followed him but he soon had to admit that his body wasn't responding to his command anymore. His arms and legs were stiff as if his muscles had been replaced by brass rods. Something was compressing his chest like a heavy stone on his stomach. He was struggling to breathe but his vision was getting blurrier with every new breaststroke. His movements were getting too clumsy and they couldn't give him enough impulsion to keep his head above the surface. He just wished that Anders would be able to reach the bank safely.

Water penetrated into his nose and his mouth, burning his lungs. He thought he had heard someone calling his name but he wasn't sure. The weight on his chest became heavier and felt different, like a rope strangling him. He saw the sky and he was blinded by the daylight. In the last clear and conscious attempt to avoid drowning, Mitchell kicked his feet with the energy of despair but he was too slow. Then, things got confusing. The world around him – the noises and the colors, even the pain, was floating in front of his eyes like a bottle in the sea. _He wanted to breathe. He had to breathe. Breathe. Just Breathe._ But all he was able to do was taking gulps of water instead of air. The liquid was everywhere: in his mouth, in his throat, in his eyes and on his face.  

Without warning, the heavy stone on his stomach disappeared. He coughed to the point of tearing up his lungs and he spat water. He realized that someone was pulling on his belt to drag him over the pebbles. John found the strength to crawl out of the river and rolled onto his flank, still regurgitating water.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

His savior collapsed at his side and rested his head on John's forearm.  "Damn, you're heavier than a fat sea lion," Anders commented. Mitchell couldn't help a chuckle that sounded more like a gurgle as he reached a hand to push away a few wet blond strands sticking to his fiancé's face.  

The trials were over, they had survived and Anders was smiling at him, exhausted but alive.   

One second later, they heard the first triumphal notes of the bagpipe and the beating of the war drums. George helped John up as Mikkel was doing the same for his brother. Annie wrapped the two men in warm wool blankets, something they were most grateful about.

 Lady Ann Mitchell stepped in front of the crowd of citizens and the ruling clans. She lifted an imperious hand. The music stopped and the chatter ceased. "I think Lord John and Sir Anders have both proven their merit and their bravery during their three trials," she declared in a loud voice. "Two out of three have been a success and I think today, you all got to see what the true value of their bond is. There is already something strong and unbreakable between my son and the spirited man who is promised to him." She turned her head to smile at her child and his fiancé who were standing side by side with John's hand gently placed on the smaller man's lower back. "It is obvious to me that the spirits approve of this union," she added and the crowd cheered in agreement.  "I call upon the Lords and Ladies chiefs of the clans to reunite, take a decision and make this decision known at noon of the present day."                                                                                                                         

"They nearly drowned us," Anders commented as John was escorting him back to their horses. "If they dare tell us we lost the trials, I swear I'm going to throttle someone… anyone."

"Not me, I hope," John wondered, feigning to be worried about the prospect.

"After I spent so much energy saving your lordly arse!? Nah," the blond reassured him as he slid his foot up into the stirrup of Ornàn's saddle.  

"My lordly arse is very happy you saved it," the young lord smiled, climbing on his own horse. "But may I add that I saved yours too. I think we can call it a draw."

Anders grinned. "Aye. I guess we can."

***

 

 

When John got back to his room with dry clothes on and a plate of food for two in his hands, the only thing he found was a tuft of humid golden hair peeking from under the fur pelts of his bed.

When they had gotten to the castle, John had offered his room to Anders and a thick bathrobe so the blond would stay warm until one of the Johnsons' servants brought clean clothes to the castle from the camp. John had left the room, giving his fiancé some privacy, but making sure to send him one of Master Sìleas's apprentices to fix a poultice and a new bandage for his injured rib.

Anders' wet kilt was drying on a chair next to the fireplace when John stepped into his room. New clothes from the Johnsons' camp were still folded and placed on a table. Apparently, Anders had just decided to take a nap in Mitchell's bed, still dressed in the brunet's bathrobe. John didn't mind at all, quite the contrary. This bed was destined to be theirs, after all. As tempting as it was, the warrior would not join his fiancé under the covers. It would be improper.

With his fiancé's presence, the whole room's atmosphere was different. Having Anders sleeping closeby, to hear him breathing -- just the two of them inhabiting the same space: it was peaceful and agreeable… it had a homey feeling to it John wasn't used to.

John sat in an armchair and relaxed for the first time in forever. His fiancé had arrived in Brastàl only four days ago but it seemed like years had passed since the first time their gazes had met in the castle's courtyard. The blond man wasn't a stranger to him anymore. John had gotten to know his other half and had discovered a perceptive, clever, witty, courageous and tenacious man, but also a proud one: cavalier, overly independent and with a penchant for snide remarks.  Obviously, there were scars hidden deep under that smooth-looking skin.

The third trial had left Mitchell completely wrecked and soon he started dozing off. He must have fallen asleep without noticing it because when he opened his eyes, his mother was standing in front of him and Anders was waiting in the doorframe, fully clothed.

"Come," Lady Ann said, offering her arm to her son, "the clans' chiefs have taken their decision."

 

 

 

To be continued… 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and commenting. It's always appreciated !!!! :) 
> 
> If you are interested, I made a celtic music playlist to help me writing and I wanted to share it with you. You can find it here : http://8tracks.com/oursesolitaire/autumn-in-the-north-hills


	8. The Tournament

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At least there will be one of the Johnson brothers marrying out of love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks and a LOT of hugs to my wonderful beta/translator who works hard to make this story possible and to Dragon4488 for the amazingly detailed drawings. xxxx <3 love you both. :)

Lady Ann entered the great hall but before the two men could pass the door, Mitchell pulled his fiancé by the sleeve, dragging him to the shadows behind a column.  "Whatever they decided, I just want you to know that I would have been honored to be your husband."

"I still have two brothers," Anders said in a neutral tone, "If the chiefs reject our union, you can always ask Mike to draw lots."

John sighed and shook his head. Axl was too young for his liking. Tyrone was handsome and kind, but John felt like they were too alike to be happy together. In fact he had a hard time imagining himself with anybody else than Anders. Maybe it was only because he had been told all his life that it was his destiny.

Without another word spoken between them, they got to the door Lady Mitchell had closed behind her. They could hear the voices of the ruling families' members at the other side. They were all waiting to see the fiancés appear and to know the chiefs' verdict.

John straightened his clothes and his shoulders. He took a deep breath to calm down. "You're ready?" he asked his companion.

"I am" was the decided answer as Anders laced his fingers with Mitchell's. The brunet peeked down at their joined hands. He knew his fiancé was only obeying the protocol, but the sensation of Anders' fingers intertwined with his helped to steady his heartbeat a little. He felt like they could overcome anything if they were together. He lifted his chin and adopted the dignified air they would expect of a clan lord.

 

As soon as Anders pushed the door and they stepped into the hall, all the stares turned in their direction and the room became scarily silent.

At the other end of the hall, Lord Douglas, the eldest of the clan chiefs and John's maternal great uncle, was waiting for them, his sword drawn from its sheath. Lady Ann stood by his side with the ceremonious bearing Mitchell had seen her display in formal events so many times before.

The seven remaining chiefs were forming a short guard of honor with their swords unsheathed and their tips resting in the ground between their feet. Hand in hand, John and his fiancé walked between them and stopped in front of Lord Douglas who asked them to kneel on the ground face to face.

John's heart was drumming like the one of a hunted stag. His eyes met Annie's. The maid was standing behind her mistress and she offered him a tiny encouraging smile.

Lord Douglas held the sword in front of him, horizontally and in parallel with the floor with the blade between the two kneeling men. Mitchell knew what he had to do. Anders and he placed their hands, palm against palm with the flat of the blade in between. John wanted to apologize to Anders for his sweaty hand but the words were stuck in his throat from the intensity of the moment. The blond didn't seem to mind, or to notice -- he was staring at the blade, a look of fierce concentration on his face.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

If the chiefs had decided to let them marry, Lord Douglas would take the sword from between their hands by lifting it up. If, on the contrary, they had refused their union, he would put his sword down, cutting the invisible link between John' and Anders' wrists. In the North Hills' culture, the bond of engagement, and then of marriage, was symbolically seen as something tying the two partners together by their wrists. In the common language, "having someone's wrist" meant being married to that person, while "lusting after one's wrist" meant making matrimonial plans for them.

John was promised to Anders since he was a baby and was officially engaged since the age of seven. He wondered if after eighteen years, the bond was strong enough that he would feel it if his great-uncle's sword went down and cut it. He gulped, almost shaking in anticipation.

Things happened in a split second. The blade slipped between their fingers, the great hall exploded in jubilation and John could breathe again.

"The clan chiefs agreed you had shown to be worthy of uniting your destinies," Lord Douglas announced, touching their shoulders with his sword and inviting them to stand up. "May the spirits bless your marriage!"

For years, John would keep a vivid memory of the overwhelming joy and impression of accomplishment of that instant of his life. He would also remember the feeling of Anders' arms coming around him to hug him and his laughter in his ear as John hugged back tightly, nearly crushing the smaller man against him.

When they broke the embrace, Lady Ann stepped toward the two men solemnly and she took a piece of green and blue tartan fabric from her belt. She tied it around Anders' arm. "You earned the colors of the Mitchell clan.Wear them to remember that you'll soon be one of us," she told him. He thanked her with a gallant bow.

John circled his groom's waist and kept him close as people were coming by to congratulate them. The blond man didn't try to avoid the closeness. Even when the brunet had to let go of him in order to take two cups of wine and offer one to his fiancé, Anders stayed by his side, like he was finally accepting it was the place where he belonged.

"You thought I would not make it through. Admit it: I surpassed your expectations by far," Anders taunted his older brother as Mikkel came to pay homage to the future husbands.

"I was concerned," Lord Johnson admitted, "but not without reasons." He turned to look at his future brother-in-law, "it was a close shave, my liege. I had to battle fiercely to make the vote turn in the favor of this marriage."

"Does this have something to do with Anders' mother?" John asked with a frown.

Mikkel seemed startled for a moment, until his brother spoke. "I told him about the rumors of witchcraft," Anders simply said.

"Well, it certainly doesn't help," Lord Johnson admitted. "But they also think you're too young to reign, or at least, they are using this as an excuse," he informed Mitchell. "I reminded them that it was the son of James Mitchell they were talking about," Mikkel continued, glancing around to be sure none of the chieftains were listening, "and they saw the way you both handled the three tests. Even if you didn't get to the castle in time for the second one, you both succeeded in taming the other's horse and it was a difficult trial. The Lords and Lady Keir would not take the risk of going against the spirits' will. I finally convinced them that they had a lot to lose by thwarting this marriage."

John felt his fiancé flinch. "Yeah, I'm sure you did," Anders sneered, "because you personally have a lot to win from it.  Don't worry, you'll be able to sell me at a good price. Lord Mitchell is probably already counting the gold pieces he wants to spend for the goods. 

John shifted from foot to foot and looked at his boots, uneasy. It was indeed a tradition that after the trials and the official announce of the marriage, the lord of the clan that was welcoming a new member negotiated the sum of money he would give in compensation to the clan that was losing one. Anders was the first heir in line to the title of Lord of Aklànd since Mikkel didn't have any children. The blond man was handsome, healthy and had also proved himself to be tough and skilled with a spear. John would indeed have to spend a little fortune in compensation to the Johnson's family.

Anders was clearly displeased by the idea and seemed to see this transaction as some sort of slavery trade. "I let you negotiate the price on my head in peace. I need another drink," he growled and left them to fetch himself another cup of wine.

John made a move to go after him but Mikkel held him back. "Don't mind him, he's going to get his head around it at some point. If you go talk to him, all you're going to get is a nasty bite. Trust me, there is no way to speak sense into his thick head as long as he doesn't choose to do it himself."

 

As Mikkel changed subject and started speaking about a new law they should bring into force to improve the maintenance of the roads along the coast.  John nodded now and then, pretending to be listening, but he was watching Anders from afar. The blond man was chatting with Axl, and John was hoping he would look his way and that their gazes would meet but it didn't happen. He had to find a way to make his groom understand that he wasn't "buying" him -- that he was just following the usages. The idea that Anders might feel like he was an object or a mere possession to trade filled Mitchell with revulsion.

"Lord Mitchell?"

"Sorry," John apologized to Mikkel, "what were you saying?"

"I was saying that we could send Anders' belongings from the camp to the castle this afternoon if you want."

"Yes, yes… that's a good idea," the young man replied absentmindedly.

***

 

That's two trunks of clothes, a saddle and other horse supplies, an elegant red oak cabinet and five heavy chests containing random objects that arrived to the castle in a carriage during the afternoon. Lord Mitchell took this opportunity to summon all the castle servants, kitchen maids and stable boys to the courtyard to introduce Anders properly. "This is my fiancé," he told them," From now on, you'll address him as 'master' or 'Sir'. Obey him, respect him and serve him as you already do so well with me and my lady mother."

Then, Mitchell asked four manservants to carry Anders' boxes to his apartments.

He hadn't dared bring up the subject of the money exchange in Anders’ presence again. The aklànder seemed to act like nothing happened and the warrior chose to go with the flow. He could feel that the anger was incubating inside his fiancé and he thought that it would be wise to avoid being the sparkle that would set fire to it.

"You could have brought some of your own servants to Brastàl, you know," John told the smaller man as they supervised the unloading of the carriage, "maybe there are some of them you'd like to have here with you. It's nice to have friends around when you move to a new place."

"I didn't really have what you can call 'friends' back in Aklànd."

John felt sad for his fiancé. Not having friends was an awful thing. John didn't know how he could live without George or Annie. "I can be your friend," he offered. He expected it to sound less childish, but it was too late and he had already spoken.

Anders looked at him and tilted his head to the side. "I thought that after everything we went through we already were."

The dark haired lord smiled. “Of course.”  One thing with Anders was that you could never predict the next thing that was going to come out of his mouth, and sometimes you could be agreeably surprised.

 

***

 

The servants had left the future husbands alone in their bedchamber and the brown haired lord was helping his groom to settle down in the large room. "What's that?" John questioned, curious.

 Anders was busy unpacking the content of a small chest and had in his hands what seemed to be a large transparent jar with pebbles and seashells at the bottom."That's a tank."

"A what?"

"A fish tank… to keep fish…"

The young man frowned in confusion. "To cook them?"

"No! To keep them alive in water, to raise them," Anders clarified, beginning to ask himself if his fiancé was playing dumb. "I had to set mine free. They would not have survived the trip. I was planning to buy new ones here," he added.

"In Aklànd you can buy live fish to keep them as decoration?" John asked, astonished at the mere idea that someone would want to keep live fish in a glass jar.

"Yes," Anders stated, like it was as obvious as the nose in the middle of his face.

Mitchell restrained himself from commenting on the oddity of that custom. "I'm afraid the only fish you'll find in Brastàl's market are going to be beheaded and ready to go in the soup."

"Oh," Anders breathed. He looked down at his tank for a few seconds, thoughtful. Then, he put it back in the chest, muttering something about barbarians.

 

John leant down to take a heavy box of books and he carried it to the empty book shelves.

"By the way, in that box there is my collection of illustrated erotic novels Mikkel asked me to burn and not tell you about," Anders informed him.

"So you didn't destroy them and you made a point of telling me."

"Exactly, you're starting to know me well," the blond man smirked.

"That would have been a shame to burn those books," John commented as he took a look at the content of the box, "now I know what I'm going to ask you to read me as bedtime stories." He chose one novel from the lot and flipped the leather cover to read the title " _The Ardent Adventures of Kenna and Lachina the Lewd Priestess Twins_ ," he read out loud, failing to hold back a giggle, "it seems instructive."

"It is! That's one of my favorites," Anders replied, folding a shirt and placing it in his cabinet. If he was ashamed about his choices of literature, he didn't let it show at all.

Since he had met the Aklànder, the warrior had the intuition that despite the fact he was escaping all of his attempts at physical intimacy, his betrothed wasn't exactly a chaste man, and this little collection of his was just a confirmation. John's hands were itching to search through the books to see if there were some that described scenes between men but he didn't. He was too well-mannered to pry. It didn't prevent him from being curious, though. Anders' fantasies were a subject he wanted to know everything about. He wondered if his husband-to-be was an adventurous man in bed, because while the Bastàler could do with more conventional love-making, he didn't mind spicing things up and was always eager to learn. That's why he was fairly happy to get to marry an older man.

 

***

 

"What happened after !??" complained Niall MacGregor, Lord Hendry's eight year old heir, who was crestfallen that Anders kept on interrupting his storytelling to take sips from his cup. The night was especially cold in the humid stoned castle of Brastàl and after the banquet; the men and women of the clans had gathered in front of the hearth to hear Anders narrate his trial in the glen. The boy was trying to contain himself from bouncing in excitation on the floor because he was holding his sister in his lap. The little girl was chewing at a wooden spoon happily, too young to understand a word of the story.  Their mother, Lady Isobel, was keeping a vigilant eye on her son and her baby daughter.

 

"What happened after is that I climbed the apple tree near the farm's ruins despite the pain of my injury," Anders resumed his narration. "I swore to myself that this time, I wouldn't let myself be unhorsed that easily. The sun was setting and I had lost too much time. I made some apples fall from the tree to bait the mare and she approached to eat them, totally unsuspecting. Sorry Mitchell, but I have to say that your horse is greedier than clever," the blond man commented, flashing a glance at the warrior above his shoulder. John was standing beside the mantelpiece just behind his other half. He chuckled softly as he put a hand on the slight curve of Anders' waist and rubbed the skin through the fabric with his thumb in a tender gesture as he let the smaller man carry on.

 

"When the mare came just under the branch where I was sitting, I jumped off directly on her back," the Aklànder continued." But the grey nightmare of a horse didn't like it at all and she started prancing and kicking like she had been stung by a bee," Anders told the enthralled audience, gesturing with his free hand to mimic the furious horse's legs. "I held on to her mane and to the saddle the best I could. I tried to talk to her, but there was nothing that could calm her down. Shaking me off was her first priority. Out of despair, I summoned _Vec_ in my head. I wanted the horse spirit to intervene in my favor and tame the beast. It didn't work. The horse did not calm down. Instead, it's me who suddenly felt peaceful. It was like everything around me had slowed down. All seemed different. I wasn't really in my body anymore. I was the horse and the horse was me. We were one entity. I could anticipate her moves and all I had to do was to accompany the movements and let them flow through me. It was an amazing sensation. Something I had never experienced before," Anders remembered. The clan members were hanging on to his every word.

 

John could relate to that since he had lived a similar mystic experience when he was in the woods during the first trial. For the first time in his life he had had the certitude that the spirits his parents were telling him to pray to and to trust through his childhood were really listening to him. After having heard Anders' story no one would be able to deny that their union was blessed. The warrior's hand was still stroking his man's unhurt flank with a slight possessiveness. His fiancé didn't seem to mind the caress or just ignored it as he went on.

 

"All I had to do was to wait for Pessa to wear herself off, which she finally did after she had shown a remarkable stamina. I knew she had accepted me for good and had granted me the victory of our wrestling. The sun had set and it was already dark in the glen. I wasn't sure where the road was anymore, but as I rode to the top of a hill, I saw the torches on the city walls in the distance. I was riding for about half an hour when I heard a desperate cry: 'AAAANNNNNNNDEEEERRRS', " the aklànder brawled, in an exaggeratedly high-pitched imitation of John's voice.

The audience burst with laughter. Mitchell’s objection that his yell didn't sound like that just managed to make them laugh even more.

"At first I thought I was going to be attacked by a vengeful hills fairy or by some barbarian monstrous creature that had kidnapped a hen in a farm and stole its voice," Anders chuckled.

"Is there really monsters like that?" Niall MacGregor inquired with a shiver.

"There is just one " the aklànder told him, " and he's standing  behind me."

The dark haired boy's eyes shifted from the storyteller to John. "Is it true that you are the creature from the hills, Lord Mitchell?" he asked with a candid alarm.

"Only in my fiancé's fertile imagination, " John reassured the child, "so you don't have to worry, laddie."

"It took me a moment to realize that the screech I had heard was in fact my name," Anders carried on with his tale," and it took me another moment to acknowledge that it could only be my dear husband-to-be who was the owner of that melodious voice."

"Thank you very much," Mitchell huffed, taking his hand off Anders, slightly vexed in his pride.

The blond man only smirked. "Then, I had to roll my eyes because that desperate cry meant that he had put himself in trouble as I was just having a casual horse ride in the hills alone at night. I knew I would have to save his life…. again. It seems like it's a full-time occupation of mine these days. Fortunately, I found him. The poor man was lost in the dark on the road. I reassured him and escorted him back to the castle in security."

"That's not how it happened at all!" John objected. A few people in the audience laughed quietly, probably thinking that their bickering was adorable.

"Aye, but that doesn't explain why you came back with Lord Mitchell holding you on his horse," Axl said to embarrass his brother.

Anders' eyes narrowed as he pointed a finger at his younger brother. "This is none of your business, " he replied. He turned around, pressed his front to Mitchell's and took him in his arms. "Right, darling?"

John stayed stunned for a second. "Yes… I… I guess so," he stuttered, looking down at his fiancé, not knowing how to react to this sudden outburst of affection. Then, as everybody was reporting their attention elsewhere and started talking to one another, he understood that Anders only did that to prevent him from telling everybody the truth. "You're a little manipulator, aren't you?" he smirked, running his forefinger along the blond man's jaw line.

"It's part of my charm."

"Oh, charming that you are, for sure."

Anders hadn't made a move to escape their embrace and John very much wanted to kiss those lips. Unfortunately, after a banquet was not the ideal moment to share intimate moments. They were soon interrupted by Lord Blackwood who asked to talk to the warrior about a bridge on the Eachann's river. The bridge was on the borderline between their respective lands and it needed reparations. John had to get used to it. It wouldn't be any different when Anders and he would be married. He was a lord and he had lands to administer; cities, armies and people to rule. These were the priorities that would often have to come before his spouse and their conjugal life.

 

Later in the evening, when he finally managed to get rid of Lord Blackwood and to have a bit of free time, he was disappointed to see that his other half had left the great hall.  He wished a goodnight to his guests who were preparing to get back to their camps and he went up the stairs. On the way to his bedchamber, he made a detour by the second floor to see if Anders was in the guestroom.As they couldn't sleep together until the wedding, his fiancé would occupy the spare bedroom until then. It was a good thing because the brunet didn't know if he would be able to resist if he had his alluring fiancé naked in his bed.

He ran into his groom in the corridor. The blond man was carrying a pile of clothes in his hands when they arrived face to face. "I only went to your room to get some garments for the tournament tomorrow," he explained.

"What tournament?" John inquired.

"Our tournament," Anders replied, frowning. He seemed to be asking himself if John was in his right mind for the second time today.

The younger man hit his forehead with his palm when he realized what Anders was talking about. He knew the North Hills' traditions. He knew them by heart. Master Sìleas had made him repeat and copy them over and over, but since he was the one getting married, it all seemed so new that he completely forgot about all of them. Of course, if the future spouses succeeded in their three trials, on the fourth day, there was a tournament in their honor. And unlike the three previous days, the fiancés would get to be the spectators as the clan's men would compete before their eyes.

"It's been a long day and I'm worn out," Anders apologized, like he sensed that John would have liked to spend more time with him, "but we shall meet tomorrow." As Anders put an arm around his neck and hugged him in a way that felt like a friendly gesture more than anything else, but John still took this opportunity to bury his face in the golden hair and breathe in his scent. Anders smelt like fire smoke, wine and a bit of horse hair. It wasn't a disagreeable mix, quite the contrary. There was also that spicy and musky fragrance of a male human body with a hint of something else he couldn't quite identify that seemed to be distinctly Anders'. He closed his eyes to imprint this scent into his memory.

John let go of the blond man only reluctantly. He would have liked to keep Anders against him only a few seconds more. At the very moment when his fiancé left his arms, John suddenly felt empty. He asked himself if it felt like that, being in love with someone. Was he in love with Anders? They bid the other goodnight and as the warrior was climbing the stairs to his room, he remembered one thing Master Sìleas used to tell his students:" _sometimes, just asking the question holds the answer in itself_."

 

***

 

John couldn't help but find it quite strange: it was daytime, he had Anders by his side and neither of them was currently in danger, lost, hungry or half-naked and cold. Instead, there was a bright warm sun shining on Brastàl's city fortifications and a low table full of victuals in front of them. A pleasant autumn breeze was blowing the heavy velvet drapes disposed around the dais and mingling the blond curls of the aklànder seated to the young lord's right. Even if they were attending a formal event, Anders was wearing a plain colored kilt. Until their wedding, the blond man would be clanless. He wasn’t really a Johnson anymore but not a Mitchell just yet.

The siege at John's left was empty. Lady Ann hadn't joined them to see the tournament, telling her son she was not so keen on that kind of entertainment and that she had a lot to prepare for the wedding day.

In only three short days, Anders would be his husband. This thought rejoiced Mitchell who covered his fiancé's hand with his on the common armrest. The blond man didn't pull back but he seemed more interested in the bowl of juicy yellow plums in the middle of the table. John couldn't blame him: they were fresh, truly delicious and they melt on the tongue like honey.

People from the city and the farms around were crowded around the fences surrounding the field where the tournament would be taking place. The noble families' members sat on benches on each side of the honor dais where Lord Mitchell and his fiancé were waiting for the event to begin.

John squeezed Anders' fingers when the roaring of the crowd joined in the sound of bagpipes to welcome the delegations of clansmen and the few women who wanted to participate in the different competitions. Those tournaments were not only entertaining: they were utterly politic as well. They were an opportunity for the young men of the clans to prove themselves and earn the respect of their elders. It was also the best place for the lords and ladies to find and compare potential suitors for their daughters and sons. The winners of the different challenges were more likely to attract interesting marriage offers. In the North Hills' ruling clans, love was something that grew between the spousesafter the marriage. The union in itself had nothing to do with love: it was a contract that bound two clans together: it was all about alliances, preservation of the lineage, money, influence, reputation and power.

The first clansmen to parade in front of the future husbands were the representatives of clan Douglas, holding their grey banner adorned with a horse hoover and the words _'We Still Walk'_. Then arrived the competitors of clan Keir with their family crest: the sail boat with the motto _'Never Alone, Never Defeated.'_ The five other clans passed in front of the platform where John and Anders were seated.

The last one to join the middle of the field was clan Johnson. Axl was holding the banner where was represented an apple tree with black letters saying ' _Roots Grow Deep_.' The youngest of the Johnsons was accompanied by his two older brothers who bowed in the front of the dais.

"Your cousin is not there?" Mitchell questioned his fiancé quietly as they both stood up.

"He's probably drunk and cuddling with a sheep in some barn around here," was the uninterested reply.   

John greeted the warriors, thanked them for being there in his and Anders' name, and announced the beginning of the tournament. The end of his sentence was punctuated by the spectators' enthusiastic cheering. Master Aonghus, Brastàl castle’s herald,  had been designated to supervise the tournament and to act as a judge and a referee.

 

The first competition was one of Mitchell's favorites: the caber toss. Despite his strength, John wasn't especially talented at it but seeing kilted men throwing six meter long beams was always impressive. The " _caber_ " the contestants had to toss was made of the large trunk of a larch tree. This sport had been invented by lumberjacks who had to make beams cross over water streams. The distance of the throw wasn't important. The first objective was to toss the caber so that it turned end over end and fell directly away from the tosser. The straightest and most vertical end-over-end toss scored highest.

The first tosser of the contest was Axl. Mitchell crossed his legs and rested back in his chair, taking a sip from his wine goblet. He was curious to see how his future brother-in-law would manage.

Mikkel and Tyrone helped their little brother supporting the caber's weight as Axl crouched and balanced it upright against his neck and shoulder. He slid his interlocked hands under the tapered end downward and lifted it in his cupped hands without help in one swift move. The caber was extremely heavy and John was stunned to see with what ease the young man had taken it from the ground. Axl began to jog forward on the field, trying to keep the caber balanced upright in his hands.

"Come on, brother," John heard his fiancé encourage his sibling between his clenched teeth. He suspected that Anders probably wouldn’t have expressed his support if he knew Axl could hear him: sibling rivalry was a strange thing.

With a loud growl, the youngest Johnson tossed the beam, flipping the tapered end upwards, hoping that the large end would hit the ground first. It was a really good toss because not only did the caber make a 180 degree rotation but it fell directly away from Axl. In the end, the younger Johnson finished in the third place behind a MacGregor and a Blackwood which was a great achievement for someone his age and bearing.

 

Ty distinguished himself at the javelin hurling contest.

"Your brother sure knows how to use a javelin," Mitchell marvelled.  

"He had a good teacher," Anders winked.

"I bet he did," the Lord smiled, knowing that his fiancé was referring to himself.

"It's a good thing I’m not competing in that tournament, I would humiliate them all," the blond man bragged with a smug grin.  

 

Axl made a fool of himself during the archery contest, nearly shooting the poor herald in the head, much to Anders' amusement and wicked delight. Mikkel showed a remarkable precision at that discipline but he had to yield the first place to a lady from clan Douglas.

John observed that both Tyrone and Axl, along with several other contenders, were wearing colored pieces of fabric tied around their arm; the sign that they had been chosen as champions by some ladies or men who weren't participating.

Nobody had come in front of the dais to offer to be Anders' champion yet. John was in two minds about that fact. At first, he was happy, because if a contender wanted to be the blond man's champion, he would have to seduce Anders to convince the aklànder to choose him. Mitchell was not sure he wanted to see another man woo his groom.  But at the same time, in every tournament that preceded a wedding in the history of the federation, the warriors had always made a point of teasing the future spouse who was welcoming a new member in his clan by courting his groom or bride. Obviously, nobody wanted to be Anders' champion. The clan's men respected the blond enough to be polite to him in public and listen to his stories, but they would not bring their honor into play by fighting for him.

Anders didn't seem to be bothered by the fact he didn’t have any suitors, or maybe he was just used to being the "witch's son" – to being either ignored or stared at with uncomfortable fascination…. and maybe he preferred the former to the latter. It was a fact that Anders didn't look like any other man of the North Hills, but he wasn't less valuable because of it in John’s eyes. The older man wasn't responsible for what his mother may or may not have been. As far as John knew, witchcraft wasn't something that transmitted from a generation to the other by blood. Anders too deserved to be courted and respected. He brought the smaller man's hand to his mouth and planted a quick kiss on his thumb. He had to make up for that outrageous injustice.

 

When the herald announced the beginning of the sword contest and invited the ones who wanted to participate to join him in the middle of the field, John jumped over the railing of the honor dais without warning. A few surprised exclamations gushed from the crowd when the spectators saw the Lord of Brastàl take place among the contestants. He wasn't technically supposed to participate in the tournament but now he couldn't care less.

Anders had stopped stuffing his face with fruits to stare at his future spouse, his whole facial expression saying " _what on earth are you doing_?" Mitchell indicated to the herald that he wanted to make a declamation. The herald gave him his permission with a nod and John bowed in front of the dais and his groom. Anders' eyes widened with a sheer panic when he finally understood what was going on and he shook his head quickly to deter his fiancé from making that mistake.

John cleared his throat, trying not to think of all the people waiting for him to speak.

"Do you know why the sun rarely shines on Aklànd's walls?" he asked the crowd. "Some say it's because of the ocean mist, but I know better,” he emphasized. “It is because the sun is ashamed to show itself. The sun knows that there is a man in Aklànd whose hair has the color of its rays and a face with the brightness of dawning," Lord Mitchell declared for everyone to hear.  

Anders' face was crimson with embarrassment. He was sitting back in his chair like he wanted to disappear into it.

"The sun in Aklànd stays hidden most of the year because it knows it can't compete with Sir Anders' beauty. I’m afraid, good people of Brastàl, that we shall not see the sun in our lands again," Mitchell completed. He could hear laughter in the audience. John suddenly thought of his great-grandfather Domhnall Mitchell who was called "The Poet", and he thought that his ancestor was probably hitting his head on a tree trunk in the land of the spirits out of disgrace for his descendant's lack of talent. John had to admit he was better with a sword than with words. But even if he knew that his attempt at courting his groom probably sounded quite mushy and lame, it was still heartfelt.

 

The spectators had the decency to applaud and Anders stood up, clapping slowly. " Nice try… nice try…," he congratulated his fiancé with a chuckle.

"I did my best."

"Somehow I believe you."

 

When the crowd noise faded, Mitchell took this opportunity to proclaim his intentions. "I humbly offer to be your champion and win this competition for you, my love, if you would have me."

Anders gave him an indulgent smile and nodded his assent as he undid the piece of woolen tartan with the color of clan Mitchell he was still wearing on his wrist. He tied it around John's bicep as a token. "You better win," he whispered to the brunet. 

"You do remember what my award will be if I win, right?" John teased.

"Hm, true," the blond pondered, "I'm not sure I want you to win anymore."

"Too late," John singsonged as he turned his back on his fiancé to join the other competitors at the center of the field.

 

"You're certain you want to do this?" George asked his friend as he helped him put on a leather armor and tightened the straps under his arms.

"Why not? It's not like I'm afraid of fighting and the prize is surely worth it," Mitchell said, throwing a glance and a cheeky smile at his future husband  from afar. George pulled on the last straps around his lord’s waist and patted him on his padded shoulder. "Good luck, then."

This competition that opposed two swordsmen at a time was called _Plangaid Còmrag_ or "blanket combat", because the combat area was a large blanket pinned to the ground by four stakes at its corners.  

John twisted his plait in a low bun while concentrating on the herald's instructions, even though he already knew the rules. Blows to the head, face or crotch were forbidden—the first of the two warriors to step out of the blanket or to be touched three times by his adversary's sword had lost. Other than that, there were no rules.

The brunet watched the first combats with attention, trying to understand the strategies of the other warriors. There were surely some of them he would have to fight against when it would be his turn.

 

When the herald announced John's name, the crowd of brastàlers whooped like a unique voice to encourage their lord. A servant gave Mitchell the regulatory round shield and wooden sword. The curly haired brunet walked to the blanket, stretched his neck and moved his shoulder muscles, establishing a strategy in his head. He was fighting against Tòmas Ferguson, a seventeen year old boy who tried to look brave and tough but seemed to know that the fight was lost in advance. John smiled at the teenager with calm confidence. The combat would be quick.

 

Lord Mitchell hit his own shield with his sword two times to indicate that he was ready to begin and Tomàs did the same in reply.

The referee’s gaze wasn't missing any of their moves.

The boy attacked first with a roar but John blocked the blow easily, and since he was now closer, the lord took this opportunity to shove the front of his shield against the boy's and push him back. The teenager couldn't riposte with his weapon -- he was crushed against his own shield. Since John was stronger than him, the only thing the boy could do was stepping back as Mitchell kept on walking forward. The older warrior hustled the boy to the edge of the blanket in one vigorous charge. The teenager landed on his back in the dust.

John had beaten his opponent without using his sword even once. The crowd applauded their lord's victory with merriment. John stretched out a hand to help the boy back on his feet and gave him a few pieces of advice.

 

The herald immediately paired Mitchell with a new opponent: Alasdair MacCallum. The man was in his late thirties, slightly smaller than John but an experienced warrior. The young lord knew it would be hazardous to underestimate him.

The contestants hit the front of their shield with the flat of their wooden sword to mark the beginning of the encounter. MacCallum stepped to the left and Mitchell to the right. John was trying not to leave his flank open to side swings. They moved in circle, face to face on their opposite positions, evaluating their chances to make a move. Their gazes were never leaving the other. Mitchell tried a feint to the left and at the last moment, he attacked his adversary's right side, but the other warrior had seen it coming and John's sword hit his shield. The brastàler hastened to step away quickly to dodge any retaliation. Then, they got back to their slow, careful dance around each other. MacCallum seemed resolved not to try anything against John and at some point; the young man tried to accelerate things and stepped forward. Almost at the moment the young lord lifted his sword to attack, he knew he had made a mistake. Alasdair sidestepped the blow -- it gave him the perfect momentum and opening to hit Mitchell on the back roughly, making the young lord fall on his knees on the blanket. Exclamations and hoots came from the benches around the field and the herald announced one point to clan MacCallum.

Since his adversary was still kneeling on the ground, the older warrior attacked again, trying to aim for John's shoulder. Mitchell lifted his shield and blocked the sword as he used his own sword to hit Alasdair's unprotected calves from underneath, eliciting a pained moan from the other warrior. He tried to hit that weak spot again but now Alasdair knew he would, so he lowered his shield to protect his legs. The herald didn't even have the time to announce the point going to clan Mitchell when John had already stood up and struck his adversary's shoulder above the lowered shield. The older man made a move to stand up and John used that moment of instability to push him roughly out of the combat zone.

The herald confirmed John's victory in that round. The young man turned his head to look at the honor dais and saw with satisfaction that his fiancé had stood up to applaud him. John brought his arm to his mouth and kissed the token Anders had tied there, then, he inclined his head in the direction of his future husband with a fist to his heart as homage to his other half and to remind the spectators that he was his fiancé's champion and that his victories were Anders' victories.

 

John's next two combats were against young warriors he didn't have much trouble to defeat soundly.

 

Finally, there was just one contestant left who hadn't lost any of his combats: Lord Conall Blackwood.

 

The lord of Fìrness was a very tall and burly man, only a few years older than John: a mountain of fat and muscles. He was both heavier and stronger than Mitchell, but he was also slower and this fact could be used to John's advantage. Blackwood was stomping like a furious bull, restless and eager to measure up to the other lord. The shields were hit with the swords and John braced himself to absorb the first powerful blow. His adversary hit the second time, almost like he wanted to split John's shield in two. Fortunately, the brastàler managed to block it again. He jumped to escape a new attack and sidestepped rapidly the other that came just after.

 

 

 

 

 

****  


 

 

 

 

Conall groaned with frustration, soon imitated by the crowd as John shunned one more assault. It seemed like Lord Mitchell didn't want to fight his opponent out of cowardice, but he chose to ignore the spectators' protestations. First of all, if he wanted to have a chance to win, he had to avoid making contact shield against shield with his adversary, because Connall Blackwood could use his weight to throw him off the blanket.  Also, if he tried to face up to the heavier man right now, the risk to be beaten out and injured was real. It was in Mitchell's interest that the fight last as long as possible. His strategy was to exhaust his opponent first. Then, he would capitalize on the same body part, hitting it over and over again to handicap the other warrior. 

This game of the cat and the mouse went on for a long moment, the public and even the herald were holding their breath, impatient to see the outcome. On the benches and in the crowd, the money of the bets was passing from hand to hand. At that stage, nobody would give John winner.

Conall was lashing out at John now and then to get him to react but the curly haired lord was still waiting for the favorable moment to counterattack. Blackwood was losing his temper and his energy on useless hits, just as John had planned.  The brastàler was keeping his sword hidden between his body and his shield. Lord Blackwood would have more difficulty to anticipate his moves if his sword wasn't in his field of sight. He also had to concentrate on using his shield efficiently because he knew Blackwood would hit back hard if he attempted to attack.

Without warning, John aimed for Conall's knees, hoping to get him off balance. The sword blow connected to the knee bone but Mitchell was too slow to lift his shield. He let out a quiet moan of pain when the burly man's weapon hit his unprotected arm just under the edge of his leather armor. He would surely have a nasty bruising there.

John stepped back as the herald announced one point going to each clan. His eyes searched the dais and he noticed that his fiancé was on the edge of his seat, his gaze focused on him. He felt proud and pleased to know that Anders was watching, but he couldn't let that distract him from his goal.

Mitchell tried to hit Blackwood's knees again but the other man had guessed his move and he blocked it. Then, he pushed his shield against John's before the younger man had seen it coming. The brastàler was now in a position of weakness and he would lose if he didn't react promptly. With a step to the left and with a slight rotation of his body, he made Conall's shield deviate, giving him a perfect target. With a fierce battle cry, he downed his sword directly on Conall's left wrist, making him drop his shield. Mitchell would not give him the time to take it back. He shifted and used the inertia of his own shield's weight to strike on Blackwood's ribs with the edge of it. It couldn't count as a point since the touch had been made with the shield and not the sword, but it prevented John from being the object of a quick offensive. Conall took the blow to his rib cage without flinching much. He stood up, rage glowing in his eyes. He lifted his sword with two hands and hammered it down with all his might. But at the same second Blackwood's weapon struck the brastàler's armor on the shoulder, Mitchell had already moved, turned to his right and his sword had hit Conall under the arm. It was a simultaneous touch but it was the third one John inflicted to his adversary who had just touched him two times.

The sound of the crowd's voices boomed and echoed on the city's walls, crowning Lord Mitchell as the undoubted victor of the _Plangaid Còmrag_. The herald took John by the wrist and lifted the one of his hand holding the sword in the air as the citizens cheered louder.

Lord Blackwood grabbed Mitchell's forearm and drew him in a bear hug, accepting his defeat graciously. The next thing John did after he had gotten rid of his armor and weapon was to head up to the dais where Anders was still seated and to jump back on it with feline grace.

"I came to claim my reward," he smiled at his betrothed from above.

"Alright," the blond sighed, resigned to his fate, "come here."  

John put a knee to the ground in front of Anders. He cupped his fiancé's face with careful hands and took a few seconds to admire the fine lines of his face features. He traced the contour of Anders' cheekbones as the smaller man placed his hands on his shoulders in a tentative gesture. The warrior pulled the blond closer gently and tilted his head to the side. Their warm breath mixed and then their lips met.

Instantly, John was drunk on them. His other half's lips were soft yet firm and shapely, full of life. They tasted like summer and sweet fruits. Forever the taste of plums would remind him of the first time he had kissed his beloved. He also realized he wasn't kissing any man, but one that would soon be his.  John's heart was drumming so loud in his ears that it made him feel dizzy. One of his gloved hands slid down from Anders' face to his neck where he stroked the column of his throat, feeling his fiancé's pulse beating fast under the tip of his thumb. Mitchell wanted to take Anders’ mouth deeper but an open-mouthed kiss would be inappropriate in public, and he knew that there were several hundreds of eyes on them right now. A violent windstorm was blowing in Mitchell's heart. He was possessed and consumed by a virulent passion that dictated him to take everything. Anders' lips weren't enough and he wanted all of him.

The blond man broke the embrace and stared into his fiancé's dark eyes. Anders looked taken aback and even a bit afraid of the wild fervor with which he had been kissed. John gave a last soothing caress to the stubbled cheek and he sat back on his chair. He took the piece of woolen fabric from around his arm and tied it back to Anders' as he distractedly watched the beginning of the next competition that consisted of lifting round, heavy rocks and put them on tops of barrels.

 

The Johnsons had not participated in the sword duels and Mitchell searched them on the bench reserved for the nobility. He finally spotted the second heir. Ty was busy speaking to a nut-brown -haired lady in an elegant cream colored dress. She had her back to John. " The lady Sir Tyrone is talking to, do you know who she is?" he asked his other half.

"Aye. It's Lady Dawn Keir," Anders replied, wiping a bit of plum juice that had dripped down his chin with the back of his hand.

"She is the first heir if I remember well."

"Yes. She has a twin brother, Sir Pàdraig, but Lady Fiona chose Dawn to succeed to her at the head of the clan," Anders informed him. "Now that my case is sorted, Mikkel wants to marry off Ty and he set his sight on the brother as a potential husband. Mike's mother was a Keir, you know : one of Lady Fiona's sisters, and he wants to maintain an alliance with them, mainly because Aklànd shares a border to the south with Keirmoor.  But Padraìg is a pig and I know my brother fancies Dawn, so I'm trying to convince Mikkel it would be a better move to marry Ty to her. That way we would have a Johnson as the consort of clan Keir."

"You chose to play the matchmaker to help your brother have the woman he wants, that's kind of you," he brunet observed.  

"Ty is a tender heart; he would die of sadness if he didn't get her. And at least there will be one of the Johnson brothers marrying out of love"

John swallowed down the lump that just formed in his throat and he let his fiancé continue: "plus, there is the fact that Lord Douglas is lusting after Padraìg's wrist for one of his granddaughters, and it would be a bad diplomatic move for Mikkel to be in confrontation with him on that matter. The Douglases are quite desperate to conclude that engagement. Their coffers are empty and they very much want a match that would help filling them."

"How you do you know all that?" John questioned.

"Ask the right questions in the right way to the right people and you get to know things," the aklànder replied casually before biting down into a piece of bread.  

Lord Mitchell ducked his head to the side, his dark amber eyes studying the other man with interest. "I think this talent of yours will be quite useful," he mused. John lost himself in his thoughts for a moment as he looked for the youngest of his future brothers-in-law. "What about your other brother, what are Lord Johnson's plans for him? Does Axl fancy someone?"

"Your mother's handmaiden, apparently," Anders replied, deadpan, pointing to a corner of the field where the tall young man was leaning down and had his lips pressed to the ones of a girl John didn't recognize immediately. But as he looked better, there was no doubt anymore: it was Annie Axl was holding in his arms and kissing. His eyes widened with surprise and then, he frowned. "That's not good… not good at all," he told Anders. "She is a servant and he is a clan heir. They don't belong together, and I don't want her to end up with a broken heart."

"Bah, they are still young, let them enjoy life a bit," Anders said, "it wasn't a real kiss anyway."

"How can you tell?"

"Neither of them had their hands on the other's face," he observed. "It's not a real felt kiss if you don't touch the other's face," the blond man stated, obviously confident in the veracity of this theory.

"Says who?"

"Says me."

If this was true, the kiss his fiancé and him had exchanged a few minutes ago was real on Mitchell's side but not on Anders'. There was also this sentence echoing in John's mind : " _At least there will be one of the Johnso_ _n_ _brothers marrying out of love_ " … and it wouldn’t be Anders.  John wasn’t naive to the point of living with the illusion that his marriage was based on sentiments: it wasn't. He couldn't be angry at the aklànder for saying that, and he wasn't, it had been said without malice, but for some reasons it still stung.

 

***

 

Leaning forward, his palms resting flat on the table of the council hall, Lord Mitchell was in deep thoughts. Under the faint candlelight, his eyes were scanning over and over the piece of paper unfolded in front of him.

The marriage contract wasn't signed yet but the line that was void until now had been filled with the numbers indicating the amount of money John would give to Lord Johnson for the loss of his first heir. 

As soon as the tournament was over, Mikkel had expressed the desire to discuss the contract in the evening, Anders had disappeared and Mitchell hadn't seen him since then. The warrior suspected that he had gone back to the Johnsons' camp. Obviously, Anders didn't intend to be around as his brother and his fiancé were debating on how much gold he was worth.

The brastàler didn't want to look like someone who was trying to spend as little as possible on this marriage so when Mikkel started to list all of Anders' qualities, John had cut him off.  "How much do you want?"

Lord Johnson asked 18 000 gold pieces from Brastàl's treasury and John agreed without trying to negotiate. It was a big sum of money but he didn't care, he would get to replenish its coffers a little at the mid-winter tax collection.

John's gaze lingered on the Mitchells' crest at the bottom of the parchment: a hand fisted around two arrows and their motto: ' _Blood Before Victory'_. Just to the left of his family symbol: the apple tree of the Johnsons. There was just one thing missing for the contract to be valid: the signatures of himself, Anders, and their witnesses. It seemed more real than ever now. A part of his life was over, another was about to begin.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI - The "caber toss" is a real scottish sport. The Plangaid Còmrag is my invention but it is based on a viking tradition. 
> 
> Thanks to everybody who write comments on that story. You are my fuel. :)


	9. Seventeen Ribbons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Anders get married.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my beta reader and the illustrator of that story. We make a good team. Love you heaps, girls! :)

 

John winced when the rough brush scrubbed his bruised arm. During the three days following the tournament, the skin had turned from a dark blue color to an ugly, greenish yellow. Mitchell swallowed his discomfort down and surrendered to Annie's treatment. He was seated in the bathtub and the maid was scrubbing his back with a maniac vigor, almost as if he hadn't washed for the past four years. Since it was his wedding day, Annie had decided that he had to be cleaner than he had ever been in his entire life.

The whole castle was buzzing with activity like a giant hive. The servants were running in every direction in the corridors to make sure everything was ready for their lord's wedding celebrations.

John hadn’t got to see his groom this morning. Anders was getting ready in the guestroom under Lady Mitchell's supervision as Annie was taking care of John in the masters' apartments. Since it was Anders who would enter the Mitchells’ clan, it was John's mother who had charged herself with the future son-in-law's garments for the wedding day. Of course, Annie had helped. Oh yes… John was well-aware that Annie was involved, because almost every time he had crossed her path during the last two days, she told him about Anders' costume. In fact, she couldn't really tell him much because it was supposed to be a surprise, but she informed him that Lady Ann and she had chosen the fabric, how beautiful it was and how Anders would surely look magnificent in it. He had listened to her and smiled: more because he was finding her enthusiasm adorable than out of real interest. In his eyes, it was not really important what his groom would wear. As long as he got to marry him, Anders could wear a grain sack it wouldn't matter.

Mitchell stretched an arm to grab a towel. "I think I'm clean enough, now," he decided, standing up and wrapping his hips in the towel, "if you go on, I won't have any epidermis left."

"Sit there," Annie ordered, pointing at a stool as soon as he stepped out of the tub. While the handmaiden was applying a minty ointment on his long locks, the young lord lost himself in his thoughts.

The days following the tournament had been quite busy. Given the fact Lord James had died suddenly, his sickness killing him in less than a week, the former lord of Brastàl had bequeathed to his heir a lot of urgent problems to sort out. It wasn't an easy task for the young man who still had to adapt to his new position. Much to his regret, John hadn't got to spend a lot of time with his fiancé. He had still managed to eat the evening meals with Anders and to take walks in the castle's garden in his company afterwards. Since the night of the whisky stealing episode, Lady Mitchell was making sure not to leave her son and his fiancé alone together. There were always a few servants with them to act as chaperones. John found the impossibility of spending time alone with his betrothed honestly annoying, but he couldn't disobey his lady mother. He also knew that it was in his and Anders' interest to keep up the good appearances and to show decency in their courting.

Despite the presence of the chaperons, John had appreciated every moment he had spent with the Aklànder. When Anders let his guard down a little, he was an agreeable companion: funny, laid-back and talkative. Those walks had helped making up for the letters Anders had never written to him during their youth. The blond man told John stories and anecdotes about his childhood in Aklànd : the taming of Ornàn, the pranks he had pulled with his brothers and the games of shinty  in the castle's courtyard. John had listened to him with delight as they walked at a leisurely pace under the shadows of the tall oaks and pines. The more he heard about his future husband, the more he wanted to know. After those walks, John never let his other half go without a chaste kiss or a caress to the cheek. Anders wasn't really responsive to those affectionate gestures but he didn't try to resist them anymore and John took it as a good sign.

The twinge in his scalp tore him out of his musings. Annie was pulling on the comb harder than the state of his tousled mane required. He knew that the maid was angry at him and she had obviously decided to take out her frustration on his hair. The previous evening, Mikkel had caught her trying to enter the Johnsons' camp incognito to visit Axl. After an insistent interrogatory, Lord Johnson learnt that his little brother had invited Annie to their camp by a note sent to the castle through Stacy, one of the Johnsons' handmaidens. Lord Johnson wasn't pleased at all. He had asked Mitchell to speak to Annie and tell her that this liaison couldn't go on. Apparently, Mikkel was negotiating with Lord Blackwood to get his teenage sister Abigail's wrist for Axl.

John had tried to sugar-coat the news, but Annie had not appreciated to be told to stay away from Axl. For now she was mad at him, but eventually, when tears would replace the anger, John would be there to comfort her. He didn't like the idea of making her upset, but he loved her too dearly to let her get attached to a man she would never be able to have.

When Annie was over with his hair, it was falling free on his shoulders in heavy, silky curls. She helped him put on a kilt, a white immaculate shirt and a brown vest with brass buttons that complimented his eyes and the very subtle coppery accent of his hair color. The last piece of the outfit was a dark brown coat, accentuating his broad shoulders and slim waist.

"No! Sorry! It's out of the question that you wear those today," Annie snapped, snatching the pair of  fingerless gloves out of her friend's hands.

"But it's cold outside," he whined.

"You're such a big softy," she scolded as she put his rings on to his fingers. He sighed: at least he was still allowed to wear them.

All her resentment seemed to have left the young woman when she pinned the brooch adorned with the Mitchells' symbol to the tartan fabric on John's left shoulder. The brooch was slightly worn and John felt his heart tighten when he noticed this detail. It was his father's.  

"It's your wedding day. It's really happening, do you even realize!?" Annie rejoiced.

"I'm not sure," John pondered," I don't think I'll really realize until I will be saying my vows in front of Anders at the temple."

The maid threw her arms around the lord's neck and hugged him tightly. "I'm so proud of you… I'm proud of you both. You'll be the best husband, and I know you will be happy together."

"I hope so. I really hope so," John wished, resting his chin on the top of her head.

The maid stepped back. She took the lord's hand and put something cold and metallic in the middle of his palm. It was another brooch with the Mitchells’ motto and crest: his own kilt pin.  

"For you, to give to Anders," she explained.

He nodded silently, running a thumb over the fisted hand holding the two arrows. He regretted he didn't have time to go to the archery field and shoot a target instead of letting the jitters shoot through his nerves.

 

***

"Stop pacing like that, you're making me dizzy," George groaned.

"It's obvious that you're not the one getting married today," John retorted, but he stopped and forced himself to stand still at his friend's side as they waited. In a few moments, his fiancé would appear in the courtyard. John had already saddled and prepared Ornàn and Pessa. He had braided his mare's mane and tail, and Anders' stallion seemed to agree that she was very pretty.

The Johnsons, the clans' chieftains and their consorts were already waiting for them on the road outside the city's walls. There was just Anders missing. For a second, John feared that his other half might have run away to escape that marriage, but he remembered that Lady Ann was with him since early in the morning. There was no way the blond man would have been able to flee in these conditions.

Mitchell stared at the donjon's door as if he wanted to drill a hole into it with his gaze alone and when he saw the handle moving, he held his breath. Lady Ann crossed the threshold first, and then, she stepped to the side to let Anders pass in front of her.

When he finally could see his groom, John gasped quietly, surprised by the rush of emotions that suddenly overwhelmed him. Anders was… In fact, there was no word to describe it. He was the only thing John could see and the only thing he wanted to see. He had thought that the way his future husband would be dressed wouldn't matter in his eyes, but he was greatly mistaken. To see that Anders wasn't wearing the black and red kilt anymore but the green and blue one, the one of his clan; it was incredibly enticing. This color was making Anders’ bright irises look like they were made of the sunlight when it came through the young tree leaves in the spring and shined on the river’s water.

The servant who had taken care of Anders' hair had slicked it back and made two small braids starting from his temples. The braids were secured by  knot work shaped clips. A thin silver chain was linking the clips together at the back of Anders' head. The green, well-tailored coat clutched to his manly form, making him look like the nobleman he was, the chieftain’s spouse he would soon become and also like the Great Consort John had the ambition of making him. That lovely living portrait was completed by a blue, open weave scarf around Anders' neck. Like John, he had his ceremonial sword and a dagger hanging on his belt.

John wanted to say something like _you look beautiful_ or maybe just _good morning, my love,_ but the words were hiding shyly inside his throat, refusing to pass his lips. Instead of speaking, John just bowed deeply in front of the blond man.

It's Anders who spoke first. "What's up?" 

His fiancé's lack of solemnity made the brunet burst into laughter. He suddenly felt less nervous, thanks to Anders. "I'm getting married today, apparently," he snickered.  

"Me too," the aklànder replied. "What an uncanny coincidence!"

"Oh, I was about to forget!" John exclaimed. He shoved a hand inside his pouch and took the brooch out of it. He pinned it to the tartan fabric on his groom's shoulder with a proud smile.

"Blood Before Victory," the Aklànder read out loud as he looked down at the pin. He raised an eyebrow and John could see the "barbarian" comment Anders was trying to abstain from making.

"That motto does not only refer to war, you know," the brunet told him, "of course, it means that for winning battles one must be ready to bleed: one has to make sacrifices to get what he wants. But 'blood' also means 'bloodline'. It means that family bonds are more important than personal victories." He reached a hand to touch the symbol on the brooch and Anders' gaze followed his gesture. "The two arrows inside the fist: they are representing the two parents or the two spouses. We Mitchells always stand up for the members of our clan, because without them we're nothing."

John had said this with such conviction in his voice that Anders stayed speechless. There was nothing to add. "It means that whatever happens, I'll always have your back," the young lord added. He hoped Anders believed him: that he had proven it enough during the trials.

"Gentlemen, please - the clans' chiefs are waiting," Lady Ann called them to order.

John helped his fiancé to climb on his saddle. He got on his own horse and waved at George. The guard would not come with them to Somerled temple to attend to the wedding since he wasn't of noble extraction. Pessa trotted through the courtyard's door with Ornàn and Lady Mitchell's horse following behind obediently. The next time John would pass that door, he would be a married man.

They joined the others on the Mitchells' Road and rode to the West. The white stallion and the grey mare were walking side by side, at the head of the procession. The autumn sun was shining over their heads and there was no wind today so the temperature was mild and comfortable. Soon, it was too hot for Anders to wear a woolen scarf so he took it off and tucked it under his belt. That's when John noticed the necklace around his fiancé's neck. The pendant was representing parted lips : the symbol of Braìg. He recognized it immediately.

"You have my necklace!," he exclaimed, genuinely surprised.

Anders looked down, like he had forgotten it was there. "Yes. Mike thought it would be a good idea if I wore it for the occasion."  

"Is it the first time you're wearing it?"

"No."

"And who asked you to wear it the last time you did?" John inquired.

"Nobody," and that's what put an end to the conversation on Anders' part.

They continued to ride along the rocky road. Anders was looking at the hilly landscape with a closed expression. John wanted to offer his fiancé a penny for his thoughts, but he suspected that even if he promised him half of Brastàl's treasure, he still wouldn't get to know what was eating his groom.

 

***

The temple was located in the woods, on the bank of a stream and isolated from Somerled city. This was the reason why people from the Mitchells' lands usually came here for their wedding ceremonies instead of going to the temples that were inside the cities' walls. The place was beautiful and quiet. Something intangible, a feeling of deep peacefulness seized every person who entered the sacred woods.

While Brastàl's temple was sheltering a community of priests, Somerled's one was only composed of women. Once they had taken their oath, the priestesses had to live in the temple for the rest of their lives and they couldn't marry since they had bound their destiny to the spirits. Nobody expected them to be virgins, though. They were still allowed to go around with men and have children.

When the party arrived, a group of novices and young priestesses was playing in the courtyard; dancing to the sound of a flute and chatting around a campfire burning nights and days to celebrate the week of Eri. One of the older priestesses watching over the novices had a toddler balanced on her hip. She stepped forward to inform the future husbands that the druidess would soon be there to welcome them.

The chieftains, with their husbands and wives, got down their horses and led the animals to the stables.

As they came back to the courtyard to wait for the superior of the temple, John noticed that his fiancé's gaze was wandering through the group of priestesses. They were all dressed in similar autumn outfits – a long, wine red coat with a dress of the same color underneath. That color, matching their cheeks all rosy from the running as they played with the younger girls, was indeed a lovely sight. By the little smirk tugging on his fiancé's lips, John could tell that Anders thought it was an alluring one. Lord Mitchell didn't like it much to see his betrothed eyeing them with interest, but he couldn't forbid him to appreciate the show. He still circled his groom's waist with his arm to remind him he was there.

When the girls noticed Anders looking at them, they started whispering to one another. The bolder one dared step toward the Aklànder. "I'm sorry, sir, but my sisters and I were wondering: what did you do to your hair?" she asked, straightforward.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"I was born that way," he explained, visibly accustomed to that kind of question.  

"Can I touch?" she asked Anders. Then, she turned to look at Mitchell, "can I, my lord?"

"It's not my permission to give," the brunet stated politely, though he tightened his grip on Anders' opposite hip just slightly.

The blond man only bent his neck forward as a silent agreement and the priestess patted the top of his head tentatively. "It feels like any other hair," she stated, disappointment showing in her voice.  

"I'm very sorry about that," he apologized, half-joking.

She thanked him, curtseyed and joined her friends to share her discovery.

He had satisfied the girl's curiosity willingly, but John couldn't help but think that being treated like a circus freak every time he went to a new place must get on Anders' nerves sometimes. As he saw that Anders' gaze was lingering on the priestesses, John put a kiss to the smaller man's temple to catch his attention. It's only when he said his fiancé's name that Anders looked at him.

"I was reviewing my wedding vows last night," Lord Mitchell began, choosing the first conversation subject that came to his mind, "and I realized I don't know your fourth name. I know your first three names, and of course your clan's one, but nobody ever told me what your mother's last name was. I'm ashamed for not knowing."

"It's fine. I don't know it either. My mother never told anybody," Anders reassured him.

"So you only have four names…"

"Yes."

Like many things about Anders, this wasn't common. The members of the North Hills' nobility were bearing five names. The first one was the usual one; it was used by most people to call you. The second name was the usual name of your father if you were a man or the one of your mother if you were a woman. The third name was called the "unique name" because the parents had to make sure it had never been given to any children of the clan before. It required a search in the genealogy for every new birth. The two last names were the one of your mother's clan, followed by the one of your father's. If you changed clan by marriage, your penultimate name disappeared and you were now bearing the name of your ancient clan and the one of your new one. Lady Ann was a Ferguson by her mother and a Douglas by her father. When she had married Lord James, she had given up the reference to the Fergusons to become a "Douglas Mitchell".

Mitchell couldn't help but be intrigued. Maybe Anders' mother came from a place where people didn't have family names… something that seemed inconceivable for the clansman he was.

John's guts churned with nervousness and anticipation when he saw Màthair Aileen coming out of the temple and driving the novices away from the courtyard. The druidess walked toward the grooms with a welcoming smile. The tall, middle-aged woman was wearing the same bright color as her protégées and her long dark hair was dotted with gray strands. "John! I'm so happy to see you, my lord," she beamed. Since the druids and druidesses were in touch with the spirits, they were the Lords' closest advisors. John knew the druidess of Somerled since childhood. Màthair Aileen had been his father's counselor and was now his. He introduced her to his fiancé who kissed the druidess' hand.

"I slept close to Réev last night," she informed them, "and the spirit of dreams showed me the image of a turtledove. It's a really good omen."

"I'm pleased to know the spirits bless our wedding day," John smiled, stroking Anders' lower back through his clothes.

"Oh, I know they had already showed you their support," the woman declared, "the story of your exploits in the trials already reached Somerled. Everybody in town is only speaking about that."

The druidess looked emotional all of a sudden. "My mother celebrated your parents' wedding," she told John, smiling at Lady Ann who was standing behind her son, "and today, I get to celebrate yours. Isn't that wonderful?"

"It is indeed," John agreed. He glanced at his betrothed who was staring at the tips of his boots like he wasn't concerned with the conversation.

"Shall we begin!?" Màthair Aileen suggested. "We can't make you wait any longer," she winked at them, "you have much to celebrate afterward." There were a few salacious chuckles behind the grooms' backs and John felt his fiancé stiffen almost imperceptibly.

The first ritual was the tying of the hands. The druidess distributed red ribbons to every noble present. John laced the fingers of his right hand with the ones of Anders' left one and they held their hands in front of them as, one by one, the guests were tying their ribbon around their wrists and expressed a wish for the grooms' future married life. Most of the lords, sirs and ladies wished them "health", "prosperity" and "luck". The only exception was Tyrone Johnson. After he had tied the knot around their joined hands, he said "I wish you love. I hope that you'll get to know each other and will be able to share a real affection."

"Thank you, brother," John whispered, sincerely touched.

When the ritual was over and their hands were trapped together by the knots of seventeen red ribbons, the grooms followed the druidess inside the temple, accompanied by their witnesses: Lady Mitchell and Lord Johnson. The others would have to wait outside during the ceremony. Weddings in the North Hills were very private rituals.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The first thing John noticed was the heady scent of the dried sage burning in terracotta vases placed at each side of the door. His eyes started itching due to the smoke and it took a moment for him to get used to the dim light inside the temple. Candles had been disposed on every of the fifty two altars and the circular hole at the top of the dome roof had been opened to let the spirits enter at will. There was mistletoe everywhere on the stoned floor to keep evil at bay and the branches were cracking under their boots as they made their way to the fountain at the center of the temple. Mikkel whispered something into Anders' ear. The blond pulled a face but nodded. His fiancé was really quiet and John couldn't help but be slightly worried.

His concern vanished when the priestesses started signing. They were hidden in the shadows around the room and their voices were so pure and clear that John felt as if tears of joy were filling his heart. The song was in Gaelic and he couldn't catch all the words, but he understood that it was telling the story of how the people of the North Hills had forsaken the old gods who were selfish and power hungry and had chosen to worship the spirits, really dedicated to helping and guiding human beings.

 

The druidess didn't have to tell the grooms what to do. She only stood by as they proceeded to the sacramental washing of the hands. "I'm here pure of heart and intentions," John said as he plunged his free hand in the basin. He cupped a bit of the cold water and poured it over the one of Anders' that was tied to his. "As I wash your hands, I wish for our union to stay untainted," he recited. His groom imitated him, repeating the same words. The chant of the priestess ceased and Màthair Aileen asked the grooms to kneel on the floor in front of her.

"John Bloodborn, child of Väm and Anders Speechborn, child of Braìg, you are here in this sacred sanctuary to unite your fates," she declaimed, putting her hands on their heads. "Marriage is not something one can take lightly: once the spirits have bounded two souls together, even death can't part them. It's a promise that once it is made there’s nothing that can break it. After your passing, you'll still be husbands in the lands of the spirits," she reminded them. "Are you fully conscious of what it implies? Are you ready to plight your troth to one another?"

 

"Yes," the grooms whispered in unison.

 

"Fine. Now you're ready to make your sacrifice to your beloved's tutelary spirit. We'll start with Lord Mitchell," the druidess instructed, inviting them to stand up and follow her to Braìg's altar first.

John slipped his hand inside his coat and took an envelope out of it. It was the offering he would give to Anders' spirit. As a wedding "sacrifice", he had to give Braìg something that would please the spirit of speech. It didn't have to be something valuable in term of money – it had to be meaningful. He placed the envelope in the stoned bowl reluctantly. He was sorry to give away the only letter Anders had ever written to him. He had read and reread it so many times that the paper was all crumbled and the "First Heir Mitchell" written on the envelope with Anders' neat handwriting was nearly erased. The night before, John had borrowed his mother’s pair of scissors and a dark curl had joined the soft blond one in the envelope. When he saw what John's offering was, Anders raised questioning eyebrows but Mitchell didn't want to explain now.

 

They made their way to spirit of blood's altar for the blond man to make his own sacrifice. "I didn't bring anything," Anders said. The declaration was followed by a heavy silence. Màthair Aileen was stunned, Lady Ann was frowning with concern, Lord Mikkel seemed to want to throttle his little brother and John … well, John didn't know how he should feel. Fear was starting to creep inside him. It was probably now that Anders would say he didn't want to marry him and would leave the temple. Anders took his dagger out of its sheath with his free hand and Mitchell felt his heart drop to his knees: Anders was about to cut the ribbons keeping their hands together.

Fortunately, it's not what happened. Instead, the aklànder pulled his sleeve up with his teeth and planted the tip of his dagger in the flesh of his forearm, inhaling sharply when the pain kicked in.  "Anders!" John cried out when the blood started flowing out of the wound. He had seen injuries far worse than that in his life but the warrior definitely hated to see his other half hurt.

"I hate blood," Anders hissed between his teeth, looking away as he held his arm (and Mitchell's) above the bowl to let the red liquid drip into it. For the blond man, doing that seemed to be a real sacrifice so John felt like he should be grateful, and what better gift for the spirit of blood than blood? Now that Anders had made his offering, Lord Johnson seemed to have calmed down a little. At least the murderous glare had left his eyes and he was looking at his sibling with a renewed respect.

"Let me," John offered when he saw Anders bring his arm to his mouth to close the wound. His fiancé watched him with an unreadable expression as the lord sealed the cut with his lips and tongue, holding the blue gaze through dark lashes.

"Now that your tutelary spirits are satisfied, you are apt to pronounce your vows," the druidess told them.

The priestesses intoned a new prayer: one about the mysteries of love, sensuality and pleasure. It spoke about the scent you collect in the crook of your lover's neck, one that can't be compared to any garden flower. It praised the sound of a spouse's whimpers of delight, more agreeable to the ear than the music of any harp. It was telling the joys of skin, lips and hair softer than silk. As the song went on, it became louder and louder, more intense, just like pleasure during lovemaking. It made John blush because the lyrics were quite explicit. He was grateful for the dim light that hid his trouble from his groom's eyes. The song finally reached its climax with one powerful note held by all the singers' voices for a few seconds before the temple fell silent again.

John suddenly realized there was something important he hadn't got to say to his fiancé yet. "I meant to tell you," he began, as they crossed the large room toward Eri's altar. Anders looked apprehensive, like he was expecting an awful, last-minute confession.

"You look very handsome," John completed.

Anders shoulders relaxed. "Thanks," he replied in a murmur, when they stopped in front of the spirit of fire's altar. He offered the young lord his first sincere smile of the day.

Màthair Aileen cleared her throat :"Ann Iona Caoimhe Douglas Mitchell, lady of Brastàl, and Mikkel Johan Eideard Keir Johnson, Lord of Aklànd; forever you'll be the sacred keepers of the union that is about to be pronounced before your eyes – do you accept this task?"

Two yeses echoed in the temple.

 

The druidess untied the ribbons around the future husbands' wrists so they could be able to face each other. She gave the ribbons to John who put them in his pouch. The newlyweds used to keep them as a souvenir and tie them on their bedpost.

The brunet took Anders' hands in his shaking ones. The blond's hands felt a bit cold to the touch so he rubbed them gently to bring the circulation back.

Aileen looked at John, gave him an encouraging smile and a nod. He would be the first to speak. That was probably the most decisive moment of his life; there would be no way back. He took a deep breath and cleared his throat.

 

"I take thee, Anders Johan Deaghan Johnson as my rightful and cherished husband," he declared, his eyes never leaving Anders' face. "May my house be for you a home, my clan a true family and my arms a safe haven. I swear for my hands to be always tender on you and never harmful. I vow to ever assure your subsistence and the one of our heirs, to be faithful and true to you until I draw my last breath and to watch over you beyond death."

 

It was over. He had said it. He felt proud and lighter all of a sudden, even if his heart was still drumming crazily. Out of the corner of his eye, John saw Mikkel shifting from foot to foot uncomfortably, like he feared his brother would not say the words. The brunet didn't share Lord Johnson's concern: he knew Anders would.

 

Anders rectified his posture and straightened his shoulders. "I take thee, John James Aodhan Douglas Mitchell as my rightful and cherished husband. From now on, your people are my people. My undoubted loyalty binds me to your clan and I shall bear your name with pride and respect. I swear that my hands will always be tender on you and never harmful. I vow to support you in every circumstance, to help you carry the weight of your title and obligations, to be faithful and true to you until I draw my last breath and to watch over you beyond death."

 

When Anders fell quiet, Màthair Aileen said a few more blessings and invoked Eri and Riga to assure the strength of their bond, but to be honest, John wasn't really listening anymore; he had already cupped Anders' chin in his hand and was waiting for one thing only.

"You can seal this union with a kiss," the druidess concluded.

Anders didn't even have the time to take a gulp of air before his lips were claimed by an impatient mouth. The kiss still stayed a chaste one. They would have to delay the tongue play until the wedding night. With a deep joy, John felt his new husband respond to the kiss by pursing his lips a little. Far too soon for the brunet's liking, it was already over. His only consolation was to know that he would have a lot of occasions to kiss Anders now that they were married. He would be allowed to do it as many times as he fancied. If he did it right, maybe one day Anders would even touch his cheek as they kissed.

The signing of the contract was only a formality John didn't care much about. He was glad the matter was sorted out quickly. After they had all put their signatures at the bottom of the parchment, Lord Johnson and Lady Ann walked out of the temple and Anders waited for John while he was thanking the druidess and insisted on giving her  a few gold coins for the wedding ceremony.  

The brunet was feeling like a giddy teenager when he planted a kiss on Anders' cheek and took his arm to escort him out of the temple. He didn't have much time to stay with his husband and receive the chieftains' congratulations because nearly as soon as they were outside, a priestess grasped Anders' hand and took him away from John's arms. He watched his spouse walk away with the priestess just before another young woman grabbed his hand and dragged him in the opposite direction to one of the buildings surrounding the temple.

 

***

 

John noticed that the priestess who had chosen him had an agreeable round face and lively anthracite eyes. "My name is Edna, my lord" she informed him as she opened the curtains in the doorframe of a small bedroom to let him in.

He smiled and murmured a "nice to meet you." He didn't have to introduce himself; she already knew who he was.

She pointed at the small bed along the wall. "You can sit there while I'm making myself comfortable," she told him, unbuttoning her coat.

"I guess I should do the same," John pointed out as he sat on the edge of the bed and removed his own coat.

"I'll be back in a minute," Edna said before she vanished to the other side of the curtain.

John looked outside at the green, orange and yellow tree leaves by the narrow windowpane as he waited for the priestess to come back. He wasn't nervous. He had done this before. It wasn't a big deal. He wondered if it would be Anders' first time. As far as he knew, it would. He wasn't really worried for his husband, though. Somerled's priestesses were experts in their art, and he was sure the one who had chosen Anders would take good care of him.

Edna came back to the room and she sat on a little bench in front of Mitchell.

"Could you please roll up your right sleeve," she instructed as she put a needle and a bottle of black ink on the table nearby.

 

***

 

When Mitchell went back to the courtyard, Anders was already waiting for him, holding the reins of their horses. Since he had tamed her during the second trial, Pessa seemed to accept Anders for good.

"Are you fine?"  John asked his spouse as he took his left hand and looked at the still slightly bleeding tattoo on his wrist, representing the burning log of Eri.

"Yes, just really hungry."

The brunet pressed a soothing kiss to Anders' wrist, avoiding the swollen, abused flesh. "There is a banquet waiting for us at the castle. Do you think you can hold on until then? I don't want to be a widower just yet."

"Don't worry."

Before they got on their horses, John pulled Anders into a kiss and the blond let it go like a rag doll into the embrace of his husband's strong arms. The lord took his sweet time to kiss him properly and John swore that for a second, he had felt the tip of a curious tongue grazing his upper lip. When John parted from his other half to look at him, Anders' eyes were uncertain but slightly feverish. That's when the words came out without warning. "I love you," John said in a hushed tone.

The blond man seemed bemused but stayed quiet. John stroked his cheek fondly. He wasn't sure what love was supposed to feel like. All he knew was that he appreciated the feeling of Anders' body against his; that he wanted to keep the other man safe and happy. He had vowed to cherish Anders: he didn't really need anything else to be sure of his own feelings. Instead of taking them back, he repeated the words: "I love you, my husband."

The aklànder stared at him like he was measuring the extent of John's sincerity. "I think everybody is waiting for us," he pointed out. The others were already on their horses, not daring interrupt their intimate moment.

"Yes, I think we should go," John conceded with a last peck to his husband's lips.

 

***

 

They entered Brastàl by the North gate and had to cross the whole city to get to the castle. The main purpose was to give the population an opportunity to get to see their Lord's new consort. From the opened windows of the houses, the citizens were making dried flower petals shower on the newlyweds' heads: white hellebore as a wish for strong female heirs, pink lupine for beautiful sons and bright blue larkspur for a late death and a merry reunion in the spirits’ lands.

It was not every day that the population of Brastàl could see a lordly wedding procession. It happened once in a lifetime.  A throng of men and women with children of all ages were massed along the main street to see the happy couple. Though 'happy' was probably not the best word to describe Anders' mood. He was seated upright on his saddle, stiff and tensed, his hands clenched in tight fists around Ornàn's reins. John was about to ask what the reason behind that behavior was, but the answer came soon enough. "Witcher!!!" someone shouted. John snapped his head around, but the coward who had insulted his husband couldn't be identified in the crowd. Most people were cheering and seemed genuinely rejoiced to see their lord married to the aklànder, but as they were making their way to the castle, a few other shouts came from the crowd: ones that were targeting John's husband without a doubt. "Don't listen to them," the brunet advised him, wishing he could do something to defend his spouse's honor, but what could he do against anonym voices in such a crowd? By the end of the procession, Anders had been called "witcher" twice and "bird of ill omen" once by a feminine voice. There was also someone who had dared shout "If there is a plague this winter, we'll know who to blame!"

"I'm so sorry," John apologized as they led their horses to the stables, even if he knew it hadn't been his fault. He was angry with himself for his helplessness. "Citizens are superstitious but they won’t do anything to you."

"I know that," Anders grunted. "Do you think it was any different when I was living in Aklànd?"

John sighed. "It still doesn't make it right – it’s a crime of high treason."

Anders put Ornàn in his box and took off his saddle. "Your precious lords - they think just the same. They are just wise enough to keep their mouth shut… for now."

John took a handful of straw and brushed his mare's coat with it. "They probably don't want to face James’ son's wrath. If you have ever seen a Mitchell getting angry: you would understand what I mean."

"Blood before victory, huh?"

"Exactly."

 

***

 

The lord of Brastàl was enjoying his wedding feast with a calm contentment. The room was of a comfortable temperature for once and the soft music of harp and uilleann pipes floating in the air was warming in itself. His conversation with his husband had been agreeable so far. The insults during the procession seemed to have been forgotten and they were both eating with appetite. It was hard not to. The cooks and kitchen maids had outdone themselves. On the tables, there were partridges served with cabbage and leeks, deer meat sausages in a pear sauce, agaric mushrooms and goat cheese pies, roasted pikes spiced with chervil and rosemary, and sweet mulberry wine.  John had also made sure there were yellow plums on the menu, knowing how much his husband loved them.

"Sir Mitchell, would you want some more wine?" a manservant asked.

John frowned, confused. His glass was full … and since when did his servants call him "sir" instead of "my lord"?

"Sir Mitchell?" the servant repeated, leaning toward the blond man seated at John's right. The brunet finally understood what was going on. He touched his husband's forearm. "He's speaking to you," he informed him.

" What!? Me? Oh ! Yes… yes… more wine, please," Anders mumbled, suddenly snapped out of his thoughts. "I don't think I'll ever get used to that name," he pointed out as soon as the servant was gone.

"Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you, but your name is Anders Mitchell now."

"It sounds so strange," the blond man mused. " 'Mitchell' is supposed to be you, not me!"

"That's why I insist that you call me John."

"Hmrf," came the half-groaned, half-snorted reply, muffled in Anders' cup as he took a long gulp of wine. His better half had retreated behind his inner walls and John had no choice but raise the siege. He didn't really understand what Anders' resistance of using his first name was about. It was probably just another of his strategies to avoid intimacy. Speaking about intimacy, the servant had just brought the dessert: delicious sponge cake with an icing of butter, honey and wild rose extract, and John was savoring it while pondering about the most appropriate moment to invite Anders to their room. There was no way to make a subtle exit. Everybody would notice the moment when they would leave the great hall. The important thing was the timing. Taking his new husband away just after the dessert would definitely be too forward. He would look like nothing but a horny beast, eager to get his way as soon as possible. If on the contrary he waited for too long, it would be suspicious as well. People (Anders to start with), could imagine that he didn't have any desire for his spouse, which was far from the truth. He very much wanted to get under Anders' kilt.  

His husband was as beautiful as he was when John had first laid eyes on him in the morning. The day had been long and exhausting for them both; rich in emotions. The aklànder looked worn out, but John still couldn't tear his gaze from his husband. Despite what he had told Annie, even now when he had said his wedding vows, he still had a hard time believing it was true, that he was married for real.

When they were sated, the servants started to empty the table from its dishes. A fiddle player and a drummer joined the musicians and the music became livelier. Tables were pushed against the walls to make space for the dancers.

After the first jig, John took his husband hand. "Dance with me," he demanded. He knew that if he formulated it as a question or an offer, he would be rejected. Anders rolled his eyes but followed him to the center of the floor as the musicians were playing the first notes of a goshawk dance.

 

It was a dance as well as a game. Just like the goshawk that hunted squirrels and birds in the forest and had to do aerial acrobatics to be able to fly between the trees, the dancers' feet and hands had to pass really close to their partner’s, but never touch them. It required precision, attention and synchronization: things two tipsy men weren't likely to have. "Gracious" or "elegant" were probably the last terms one would use to describe their performance. Before the song was over, Anders had just given up and John was laughing himself silly.

When the music changed for a reel, the newlyweds decided they needed refreshment. John was still giggling as he held out a cup of wine to his husband. "It was funny."

"It was pathetic," Anders stated.

"We just need practice."

"No, thanks," he brushed him off. "Dance isn't my strongest suit anyway."

John leaned against a pile of wooden barrels and observed the blond man for a little while. The red wine had stained his plump lips, giving them an inviting color. One of his braids had lost its clip. It was falling in a wavy golden strand to the side of his face and there was still a white petal of hellebore stuck in Anders hair. John stepped aside to stand behind his spouse. He took the dried petal from his husband's hair and let it fall to the floor, wondering if it meant that their first child would be a daughter. Then, he unclipped the remaining braid and carded his fingers through the soft, fair mane. As Anders turned around to look at him, John placed the jewellery in his flat hand and closed Anders' fist around it before kissing his fingers. "Would you do me the honor of accompanying me to our bedchamber, my love?" John asked.

Several confused emotions suddenly stormed in those rough sea eyes: discomfort, nervousness, reluctance, and finally, one seemed to win over the others: it was resignation. "Yes," was the barely breathed response.

The spouses tried to make their way out of the hall without being noticed.

"Oi, John!" Lord Ferguson hailed him. The brunet stopped and sighed. He hardly had the time to turn around to catch the vial the other lord had thrown in his direction. "Don't forget that. You'll need it," Ferguson winked. The oily content of the vial was making the purpose of that gift quite clear.  John's face turned crimson and Anders' one was suddenly wan. Of course, most of the guests had heard and started laughing. The blond walked away and left the room without a word. John didn't have much choice but to follow behind.

Anders kept quiet as they climbed the stairs side by side. The lord was sad to see that the other man was acting like a prisoner going to the gallows while he was looking forward to slipping under the cover with him and getting to know him better.

They got to their room and the Brastàler locked the door after them from inside.  He now had to find a way to reassure his husband and make him overcome his apprehensions.  

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, big thanks and hugs to poeple who take the time to leave comments. It always help me write more and update more. I likee to know that you guys read it and love it.


	10. Bird of ill Omen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cats don't kill birds with arrows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, a scottish hill of thanks to my muse and beta, Katyushha, for bearing with my doubts, my fits of frenetic inspiration and my occasional whining. And also big thanks and hugs to dragon4488 who created the STUNNING portrait of John for that chapter and for inspiring me as well with her talent.

During the day, while their masters were at Somerled Temple getting married, Brastàl castle's servants had prepared the nuptial room for the new husbands' wedding night. Bouquets of mint and yarrow had been tied to the bedpost. These herbs were known to be aphrodisiacs, their fragrance prompting the newlyweds to overcome the inevitable shyness and enjoy the virtues of a physical union. Along with other drinks, a bottle of honeyed apple cider had been left on the table for the same exact reason – it was the beverage of love, supposed to arouse the deepest passions.

While the aklànder was busy inspecting the different refreshments they were graced with, John hastened to hide the vial of oil under his pillow, knowing that the sight of it was making the blond uncomfortable.

"Do you want something to drink?" Anders offered, ignoring the cider in order to grab a bottle of whiskey and two goblets.

 

"I think I already drank enough for tonight," John replied as he stepped toward his husband. He had been waiting for that moment impatiently -- now they were finally alone and Anders was all his. There were no chaperons to spy on them anymore. "I want to experience other pleasures than the one of alcohol." Cupping the blond's face, he ran a thumb on the soft arc of his upper lip," though I know I could get drunk on that mouth of yours only."  

John leant down but Anders took a sip from his goblet before he could kiss him.

Obviously, the straightforward seduction attempt was not the best option, but John didn't know any other. That kind of confident approach, coupled with compliments, usually worked quite well for the brunet when it came to bringing a potential partner into his bed. The young lord's previous lovers never resisted it for long, but Anders wasn't like any lovers he had before.

Of course, John understood Anders' uneasiness. They’d only known each other for not much more than a week after all. John was nervous himself, but at the same time, he hadn't been able to stop thinking about Anders' body and he was curious to touch and taste.

John took off his own coat, put it on the backrest of one of the armchairs and rolled up his sleeves. He could feel the blond's gaze on him, monitoring every of his moves, like the hare watching the eagle fly in circle above its head.

The brastàler tried a new strategy. He sat on the edge of the bed, patting the fur pelts. "Come here and sit with me."

There was no reply, no reaction, just blue orbs fixed on him.

The brunet realized he would have to take things in hand if he wanted something to happen, because he sensed that Anders would not make the first move or even come to him by himself. John stood up again and walked to his husband. He took the goblet from Anders hand gently and put it on the table nearby.  His spouse was standing still and stiff in front of him. "I think that the first thing to do is to make you comfortable and help you relax," he murmured, with what he hoped was a reassuring smile, as he unbuttoned Anders' green coat. He made his husband turn around and pulled the coat off his shoulders.

For a few seconds, John stayed awestruck. Anders wasn't wearing a plain white shirt underneath, as John thought he was. The shirt was indeed white, but there were delicate blue and gold bloomed vines embroidering patterns on it, as if the vines were growing on Anders' back from his waist to his shoulders. The shirt made Anders look like a lush garden.  It was an incredible artwork, unlike anything Mitchell had seen before. It was a garment worthy of a Great Lord's consort. John thanked his mother in mind.

The brunet reached a hand to brush the embroidery with his fingertips and felt his husband shiver. Then, he ran a hand up the blond's back and undid the necklace Anders was wearing. He put it on the table along with his goblet. Anders had turned his head to the side, observing him from the corner of his eye.

John pushed Anders' hair aside, and then did the same with the collar of his shirt in order to reveal the soft curve of a shoulder. John leant down to put his lips on the crook of his husband's neck. Instantly, he felt lust flooding his veins: hot like freshly-made tea and making his head spin like the strongest whiskey. Images rushed through his mind as he let his lips wander on the warm, fragrant skin. He was envisioning Anders with his back arched from pleasure, his skin glistering with sweat, his small but pretty hands clenched in the woolen fabric of the blankets, his lips swollen, his nipples perky and his blond hair all messy. He wanted it to happen. He bet Anders had a gorgeous cock and the most enticing pair of thighs of the whole North Hills. John placed two more kisses on his husband's neck, feeling the other man quiver once more.

"There are so many things I want to do to you," he breathed into his ear in a way that made it sound like a husky groan. This sentence elicited an immediate reaction and the brunet sensed he had gone too fast for his husband's liking.

Anders stepped forward, escaping John's embrace. He turned around to face him and gulped.

The brastàler was taken aback by what he saw in the other man's eyes. It wasn't mere nervousness or uneasiness anymore: it was fear. His husband was afraid of him. Anders was not frightened by wild boars, wild horses or even by the prospect of drowning… but he was scared of sleeping with him.

"I will not hurt you. I'll be very gentle, I promise," John hastened to say. "We can take it slowly," he suggested.

Anders eyed him, clearly not sure if he should believe the brunet.

Suddenly, realization hit the young lord. He had always assumed that the older man would be more experienced than him, but maybe it wasn't the case at all. "Have you ever done that before?" John questioned hesitantly.

"What do you think?" Anders said in a humorless chuckle. "You think that I stayed a good little virgin, waiting for you to appear in my life?"

John stepped back to give the smaller man more space. "I never expected such a thing," he replied with a frown.

"That's a relief," Anders snorted.

"I'm not a virgin myself, you know" the brunet confessed. John had always known he would be married one day and that he would have to be faithful to his husband, but it didn't prevent him from having other experiences before. He never denied himself a roll in the hay with one of the stable boys. There were also some of the young manservants who had come to his room in the evenings to bring logs for his hearth and had only left it on the following morning. He also had lovers from outside the castle and had never been ashamed if it, but he hadn't got attached to any of them either, knowing that he was already promised to someone else. He had always assumed Anders would do the same and it wasn't something that bothered him especially.

"I understand your reluctance. After all we barely know each other," John sympathized, keeping a soft voice, "and this marriage was imposed on you, but we have to consummate the union for it to be considered valid and-"

"What are you going to do: rape me?" Anders cut him off dryly.

"No, of course not! How can you think such a thing?" John protested in a hurt tone. "I vowed that my hands would never hurt you! That includes not forcing myself on you! I was just hoping you would lie with me of your own accord. If we don't, anybody will be able to challenge the legality of the contract. "

"Nobody will know we didn't sleep together. What proof can they have?"

"The spirits will know. How am I going to be able to face the other lords tomorrow at the election, knowing that our marriage is invalid in the spirits eyes?" As he said it, John realized that it was maybe not the best thing to say in the present circumstances. He would look like he was trying to guilt trip the blond man into his bed – which he wasn't. He was just expressing his worries out loud. He knew that the other chieftains were just waiting for him to make a mistake to take his place and rule the country. There was much more at stake than just a mere matter of sex.

"Don't worry, Mitchell, you're going to get your big title," Anders sneered. "And you can count on my dear brother to support you. He wouldn't take the risk of losing the money he made by getting rid of me. I hope that at least, he didn't sell me too cheaply."

"Eighteen-thousand gold pieces," John replied without thinking. Anders’ defiance was unsettling him so much that the words had crossed his lips before he realized he was running straight to a catastrophe.

As expected, Anders' face took a sour expression. "It's great. Now I know how much money I'm worth." He took his coat and put it back on. "I guess I will sleep in the guestroom tonight, that way you won't have to look at me and remember how much money you lost on me."

"You can't," John retorted.  

"What?" Anders exclaimed. "You're going to lock me up here as well?"

"No. You can't sleep in the guestroom since I lent it to Lady Catrìona McCallum. She is pregnant and wasn't feeling well. We could just sleep side by side in our bed: you and me. I wouldn't touch you if you don't want me to," John offered, feeling like he was running out of options.

Anders didn't answer, avoiding his husband's gaze in order to stare at the floor. It was obvious that Anders didn't wish to share a bed with him, even if sex wasn't involved.  John knew he had made a mistake by telling his spouse the amount of money his brother had gotten in exchange for his wrist. It was really indelicate and against common courtesy. The young man didn't know what to say or do to make the situation better. Not daring to take any chance to make his other half even angrier, like the coward he suddenly felt like: John chose to flee. "Fine, it's me who's going to find another place to sleep," he decided. The blond man wished to be alone and Lord Mitchell still had some pride: he would not stoop to sleep on the floor of his own room. Neither could he let his consort sleep on a chair or the carpet.

Anders didn't protest.

The grey cloak with a large hood John was keeping in the chest at the foot of his bed would do the trick to hide his face in case someone crossed his path outside their door. He took the precaution to take it even if he knew how to leave the castle without being seen. He couldn't take any chance: if someone recognized him and knew he hadn't stayed with his husband on their wedding night, they could legitimately ask for the marriage contract to be broken. John would avoid the stairs and get to the servants' quarters by climbing down the laundry chute. Then, he would get outside by the door hidden behind the shelves of the food storage room. There was a good thing about the fact it was the wedding night: everybody was either too drunk or too busy celebrating to notice him. The bad thing was that John should be celebrating too and not making plans to escape the castle and save his pride.  

After he had wrapped himself in the heavy fabric, he cast a last look at his husband who was still refusing to look in his direction. "Good night, Anders."

If Anders wished him a good night as well, Mitchell didn't hear it because he had already left into the corridor like a quick shadow.  

 

***

When George found his best friend seated on the middle of the bed, in his apartment behind the guardhouse, hugging a pillow to his chest and looking utterly miserable, the guard leant against the doorframe and sighed. "I won't ask questions if you don't wish to talk about it, but the face you're pulling and the fact you're in my bed and not warming your husband's tells me that something cut your wedding night short." As he got no reply, the chief of Brastàl's guards made his unsteady way to the bed and collapsed on the mattress by John's side.

"Do I have an arm growing out of my forehead?" John questioned his friend.

"What!?" George asked, raising his eyebrows in confusion. "Look, I'm exhausted and half-drunk. You're going to have to ask your questions clearly, mate."

"Am I ugly, George? Am I disgusting, repugnant, hideous, ill-favored, repulsive?" John specified.  

"Well, if I'm basing my judgment on all the people of every gender who came to me, asking me to speak to you in their favor because they were hoping to be noticed by you, I wouldn't say that you're ugly, no."

"Pfft! It was the title they wanted to sleep with, not me," the lord grunted.  

"I think everybody agrees that the spirit of beauty favored you," George reassured him.  

"Can you explain to me why my husband doesn't want me, then?"  

The guard scratched his forehead. "Have you ever consider the possibility that he may not be attracted to men at all?" he asked carefully, knowing that his friend would probably dislike his question.

The lord sighed. "To be honest, I always knew it was a possibility, but I kept on denying it. I’ve always thought I was attracted to men because I’ve been from a young age that was going to marry one. I think I just assumed it would be the same for him."

"In case I'm right and your husband can't stand the idea of sharing intimacy with another man, you can always come to an arrangement with him," George suggested. "You could both take lovers."

"It wouldn't be conceivable," John stated. "Anders and I vowed to be faithful to one another."

"Yes, but the vows are one thing, the reality of married life is another," George pointed out.  "Everybody knows that Lord Duncan has a ton of mistresses, and when Lady Keir's wife fell pregnant with their twin heirs, nobody thought it was from the magic spells of the fairies."

"If they choose to cheat on the sacred oath they took on their wedding day and betray the spirits' trust, it doesn't mean it is right for me and Anders to follow their example," John hissed between clenched teeth. He imagined for a second how he would feel if he walked on Anders kissing or making love to his mistress and he had to force himself to calm down because he realized he was about to tear up George's poor pillow.   

"Do you love Anders?" the guard asked gently, taking his endangered pillow out of John's fierce grip.

"Of course I love him- he is my husband, for the spirits' sake!"

"I mean, do you have feelings for him that don't have anything to do with your duty as a spouse?"  

John actually had to think about that question for a few long minutes before he could give an answer. He had indeed this tendency to associate duty and feelings closely. He desired the title of Great Lord, because he knew that it was what his father and his ancestors would have wanted him to be. But, did he love Anders only because he was married to him and he had to? Anders could be abrupt, gruff even, but under that helmet of rudeness the blond was using as protection, John had caught the glimpse of pure, clear eyes: the real Anders. He tried to imagine a world where they would not have been engaged and where he would have met the Aklànder in other circumstances. It was only an imaginary exercise, but he found his feelings unchanged.  "I… I think I do have feelings for him. Yes."

"Well… that complicates things a bit," George pointed out.

"Tell me about it," John groaned, letting himself fall on his back on the mattress.  

John would not sleep a lot that night.

Tomorrow, the North Hills Council of the Lords would elect a new Great Lord. Though, it was not the reason why John was deprived of rest. His mind was filled by thoughts about the blond man whose heart he wasn't able to reach.

In the castle's largest bedroom, on the third floor of the donjon tower, said blond man was also tossing and turning in his new bed, restless.

***

Mitchell returned to the castle just before dawn. The first floor was quiet, except for the snoring of the servants who would probably wake up with a nasty hangover. The young man got into the laundry chute. Climbing in the narrow space all the way up to the third floor was dangerous and difficult but fortunately, John was strong and it was not the first time he used it to escape the castle without being seen. As a teen, it was his favorite exit to hang out in town with George without alerting his mother.

There was not a living soul in the third floor's corridor either. He walked to his bed chamber's door and was about to enter when his foot bumped on something on the floor. It was still quite dark but when he took the object in his hand and felt the feathers, he immediately understood what it was. A bird with its neck limp: freshly killed.

 

Instantly John's heart started drumming. This object had not ended up there by itself. Someone had left it in front of the door on purpose: it was a death note.

Anders jumped when his husband stormed in the bedroom and John heaved a sigh of relief when he saw that his spouse was alive, seated in an armchair in front of the fireplace, a book on his lap. When the blond saw what John was carrying, instead of wishing him a good morning, he closed his book and asked:  "Why do you have a dead bird in your hand?"

"Someone left it on our doorstep," the lord explained, stepping toward the hearth to study the bird under the fire's light.  He realized it wasn't just any bird. It was a turtledove.

"It's probably a wedding gift from one of the castle's cats."

John lifted the bird's wing to show his husband the bloody hole underneath. "Cats don't kill birds with arrows, Anders."

"Why would someone kill a bird and leave it in front of our door?"

"I can't help thinking that it's a message," John mused, "a threat more likely."

"A threat?"

"Do you remember what _Madraìd_ Aileen said before the wedding ceremony? She said she had dreamed of a turtledove… and now there is a dead one left on our doorstep, in the morning of the election. I have a hard time believing it's a coincidence. Someone tries to intimidate me."

The aklànder frowned. "Do you think someone saw you leave the bedroom last night and tries to blackmail you?"

"I really hope not, but as far as I know, nobody saw me." John wrapped the turtledove in a cloth, put it on the table and shrugged his coat off.  "I will ask George to stay with you today. He'll be your bodyguard."

"I don't need a bodyguard," Anders retorted.  

"Better be safe than sorry. We shouldn't underestimate the threat. There are a lot of people who would be pleased if I suddenly became a widower just before the election."

"Don't worry, I'll do my best to stay alive long enough for you to get the sword of the Great Lords in your hands," Anders hissed. Obviously, the night hadn't healed the wounds their last conversation had left.

"I'm not saying that because I fear for my title: I don't want something bad to happen to you, that's all," John sighed, taking off his boots and his shirt.

"What are you doing?"

"The sun is rising. I have to call a servant and we are supposed to look like spouses who shared a long night of passion," John pointed out.  

"Hm. Yes, you're right," Anders conceded, taking off his own shirt and ruffling his hair with both hands.  

The brunet rang the bell and it took nearly half an hour before a muzzy manservant finally showed up at the masters' bedroom door. "I need to talk to Chief Guard Sands: can you fetch him for me, please?" John asked him.

"Yes, master. Does my lord need something else?"  the servant asked, peeking curiously in the room where Anders was languorously sprawled on a couch.

"Breakfast for my husband and I," Lord Mitchell demanded.  

"I think I said that I didn't need a bodyguard," Anders protested once the door was closed. "I was constantly watched when I was in Aklànd because I was the Great Lord's son's fiancé and now that I'm married to you it's the same old thing. I guess I just traded one prison for another."

"I'm sorry if it makes you feel that way," John replied, determined not to let his husband's behavior shake him. "Besides, it's only for one day, my dear."   

 

***

"Remember, we must look like we spent the night together," Lord Mitchell reminded his spouse once more as they were heading to the great hall, followed by George.  

"Of course, my lord," the blond grumbled. "Should I limp to make it more credible?"

"No. I don't think you have to pretend I maltreat you." John retorted, a bit more harshly than he intended to." He knew that from Anders' perspective, he probably looked like a self-serving ambitious prick who was only obsessed by power. Truth was, if he wanted to become Great Lord, it was because he knew it would be the best way to assure his clan's well being, but trying to explain that to his husband was obviously useless since he didn't seem to believe him when John said he cared about him. Having to endure Anders' grumpiness was still better for the young lord than what the consequences would be if people knew he hadn't performed his marital duty the night before. So John forced his most convicting smile and he tightened his fingers around Anders' hand as they crossed the great hall under the scrutinizing gazes of the ruling families.

"Slept well, little wifey?" the youngest Johnson teased his older brother as the husbands joined Anders' former clan.   

"Go hang, Axl," the blond man snapped, still moody. Lord Mitchell let go of his husband's hand. Nobody seemed to think it was unusual for Anders to act that way. At least, the Johnsons looked like they found it perfectly normal.

 

John studied Olaf’s face. The bald priest was still puzzling him: a trait he shared with Anders. The other Johnsons were way easier to size up. Sir Axl was in the uncertain state between childhood and manhood: beginning to understand that life was short, but still seeking fun and trying to measure up to his brothers. Sir Tyrone was kind and sensitive. He was like a reed that bent from the gentlest breeze but never broke and always found a way to stand up again.   Lord Mikkel was a man of action : a man born to rule a clan. He knew how to use his authority, was fiercely protective of his family’s cohesion and reputation. Anders….became a mystery harder to decipher with every day that passed. John thought he had got to know him better during the trials, but now he had doubts. Olaf Johnson was another strange man.

“Since today is an important day, maybe your tutelary spirit has a piece of advice for me, Master Olaf,” he asked the priest.

“Er… hm… I….,” he hesitated.

“You’re wasting your time, “ Anders told his husband. “Funny enough, he’s the oracle of the spirit of wisdom but he never knows anything.”

“I must say I always wondered why they recruited you at the temple in first place and promoted you oracle,” Axl pondered out loud.

“I was the druid’s personal magic mushrooms pusher,” Olaf replied casually.

Mikkel rolled his eyes. “Well, that explains a lot of things.”  

“That explains why all of the North Hills are laughing at the prophecies that come out Aklànd’s temple,” Anders pointed out. “Last year they predicted us an invasion of talking toads,” the blond man informed the brastàler who suppressed a fit of laughter.

“It was a metaphor,” Olaf huffed, vexed in his pride.  “You ignorant people don’t understand anything when it comes to the subtle art of foreseeing.”

 

As Anders and Axl kept on teasing their cousin, Lord Mitchell turned to look at Tyrone. "May I speak to you in private, Sir Johnson?"

"Of course, brother. What can I do for you?" the pale man said as he followed the lord to a setback area of the hall where no indiscreet ears could hear them.

"I have an important question, but I wish for this conversation to stay between us," John demanded once they were alone.  

Tyrone frowned. "Does that concern Anders?"

"Yes, it's about my husband."

"If the information I give you is not meant to put him in danger in any way, then I agree to stay quiet about this."

John smiled slightly. He was touched to see how loyal Ty was to his older brother. "No. Don't worry. Anders' wellbeing is my highest priority."

"I do not doubt it," the recently promoted first heir smiled back. "What do you wish to know?"

"It's a bit delicate… I'd like to know…" he cleared his throat, uneasy. "I'd like to know where Anders' interest lies when it comes to physical pleasure."

"Hm Hm," Ty coughed. "I'm going to be honest with you: Anders likes women a lot. Even if at first, they are suspicious about his looks, he has a way with them and always gets to bed the ones he wants."

"And with men?" John wanted to know.

"Well," the Johnsons' heir pondered. "I hang out with him most of the time and I can tell that he's not entirely indifferent to manly charms, but as far as I know, things never went further than what I would call 'drunken groping'."

"Thanks a lot for telling me," John said after a moment of reflection.

"Glad if I could be of any help," Ty replied, patting the lord's shoulder.

Lady Dawn Keir passed by and Tyrone forgot the existence of his brother-in-law instantly as he ran after her to wish her a good morning and kiss her hand gallantly. The lady seemed genuinely happy to see him. John couldn't help a little smile. They were adorable to watch. John's smile faded when he laid his eyes on his husband. He would give anything to kiss Anders and feel him kiss back – to be able to rest his head on his chest, feel his heart beat for him and speed up under his touch. Was there still hope it would happen one day? Surely there was.

 

"You know, they say that if you stare at the sun for too long, you can get blind," a voice teased behind John's back.

"Hi Annie," he greeted the maid who had caught him staring at his husband from afar. "I'm glad to see you here. Are you going to the kitchen by chance?"

"Yes, that was my next destination."

John made sure nobody was looking their way. "Perfect. I have a favor to ask of you. Take it," he told her, taking a bundle of fabric out of his pouch and putting it in her hands.

"Ew! A dead bird!" Annie exclaimed when she unwrapped it. "What do you want me to do with that?"

"You're going to cook it."

"What?"

"Trust me."

 

***

John was still thinking about his husband when he sat down at the council's table. The fear he had seen in his pale eyes the night before was still haunting him. What could he do to convince Anders to let him prove how tender he could be with a bedmate?

"Let's hope there will be no opposition and that we can get out of here as soon as possible," Mikkel whispered, leaning toward his brother-in-law seated at his side.

John nodded in agreement, even if he doubted that it would be an easy election.

 

The regulator, who would supervise the vote, had been chosen amongst the priests of Fìrness' temple. The temple was part of the Blackwood's estates but since Lord Blackwood was still single and therefore not eligible to the title of Great Lord, the priest was probably the closest person they could find to a neutral supervisor, if such person existed.

Once all the chieftains had taken place around the oval table, the priest stood up. The first thing he did was to make a eulogy to the last Great Lord. John felt a lump forming in his throat as he heard the priest praise his father's qualities and feats.

"Today we are gathered here to elect Lord James' successor," the regulator reminded them. "His only son: John Mitchell, Lord of Brastàl, husband to Anders Mitchell, consort of Brastàl, has the right to lay claim to that title by blood, but only the assent of the council can confirm his place as the ruler of the North Hills. If no chieftain of the nine clans is opposed to his nomination: he will automatically become our new Great Lord. If one of you wishes to express such an opposition, they have to speak now."

John clenched his teeth and tightened his fists under the table when he saw Lord Robert Duncan stand up and declare "I'm opposed to this nomination."

That's exactly the situation John feared, but as he looked around to study the other chieftains' faces, he knew that it wasn't a surprise for anybody here.

"Do you have another candidate to nominate, Lord Duncan?" the priest asked.

"Yes. I would like to submit my own name," Duncan stated.

"Anybody else wishes to add their name?" the regulator inquired.

The room stayed silent and John suspected that Duncan's nomination had been planned for a while. The young lord dried his sweaty hands on his kilt. _How many chieftains did Duncan already ga_ _in_ _over_ _to his cause?_ he worried.

As the council's traditions required, there would be a secret ballot immediately, without leaving the time to the different parties to debate.

Clay plates and metal pens were distributed to the chieftains by a servant. Each of them had to engrave the initials of the candidate of their choice in the dried clay or draw a "X" if they wished to cancel their vote, and then, place their plate in the box the servant was holding. John traced the letters "JM" on his own, thinking that it was quite odd to vote for himself. When everybody had voted, the servant brought the box to the regulator who counted the votes, and then, locked up the plates in the box. This way, the clay plates could not be falsified and the box could be reopened at the end of the council if somebody asked for the votes to be recounted or verified.  

While the chieftains were voting, the regulator had written John's name on one parchment, Duncan's name on another and the word "abstentions" on the third one.

The servant placed a basket containing nine pinecones on the table. The history books of the North Hills said that the first councils of the clans were taking place under a large pine tree and that the votes were taken by throwing pinecones in a basket when the chiefs agreed to a proposition. In memory of those bygone times, pinecones were still used to announce the result of votes.

John's heart started drumming in his chest in anticipation when the regulator locked up the chest and reached a hand to take the pine cones. One had to have six votes or more in their favor to be elected.

The regulator placed four pinecones on Mitchell's parchment, four on Duncan's and one on the "abstentions". This meant they would have to vote again. In the meantime, they had a predetermined amount of time to debate. The regulator turned the hourglass upside down and John stood up.

"It came to my attention that some of you think I'm too young to be your ruler," he began. "It's true that I'm the youngest here: but that doesn't mean I'm not ready to succeed to my father. I'm born under the spirit of blood and I'm a warrior at heart, but I know I can earn your trust and respect elsewhere than on the battlefield. Lord James Mitchell was a good man, a great leader, and he taught me everything he knew. The North Hills had never been wealthier than under his reign: infant mortality had decreased, people are living longer and they are better educated," John argued, his voice tone blazing with passion. "I want to continue his work because my father taught me that a lord's only ambition has to be the happiness of his people and that he must not let himself be guided by greed and the hope of extending his lands at the expense of the common good," he added, holding Robert Duncan's glare pointedly. "And I also know I can put an end to the conflict with the nomads once for all."

"Oh, and what is your genius strategy to put an end to the war that lasts since the last century?" Duncan jeered.

"Diplomacy," John replied simply, sitting down on his chair.   

"This is insane, boy. A good nomad is a dead nomad," Lord McCallum objected. "We can't discuss with those barbarians."

"How could we know?" the young brunet pointed out. "We never tried before."  

"This man does not know what he is saying," Lord Duncan thundered as he stood up, pointing a finger at his adversary. "Now he wants us to be friends with the nomads who burn our villages and rape our women. He is clearly not himself. There is nothing left of the young, fierce warrior you all admired," he told the other chieftains. "He is weak, almost like a child: too emotional and easily destabilized. We all saw the changing in him lately. It began when he met the man who is now his husband. The son of James Mitchell is not here anymore: what you see sitting at this table is a puppet under the influence of a spell. Anders Mitchell bewitched his husband to rule over us through him."

"These are false accusations!!!" Mitchell yelled, stepping back on his feet. "Anders is not a sorcerer!!!"

"Sir Anders succeeded in the three tests," Lord Ferguson pointed out, trying to calm the opponents. "I can't believe that the spirits would let a sorcerer survive the trials."

"We've been blinded, all of us," Duncan professed. "During the trials, what we thought was the expression of the spirits' will was in fact the work of devilish gods summoned by that twisted, blond witcher."

John felt the heat of blind rage rushing to his face. "IT'S MY HUSBAND YOU'RE INSULTING YOU DIRTY SON OF A WHORE!!!" he roared and he would have pounced over the table to punch Lord Duncan if Mikkel didn't grab him at the last second.

"See?" Duncan told the council, still pointing an accusatory finger at the young man Lord Johnson was trying to restrain from jumping at his throat. "He can't control himself. He's ruled by an evil force: you can see it in his eyes."

"Calm down John, I beg you," Mikkel whispered to his brother-in-law. "He's trying to undermine your credibility by showing you as a hot-headed boy. Don't let him win."

"He insulted Anders. I have to avenge my husband's honor. I'm going to challenge him to a duel and kill him," John hissed.

"You won't do such a thing," Mikkel insisted in a hushed tone. "You're going to sit down, take a deep breath and win this election."

The younger lord was seeing red but he knew that Mikkel was right. He managed to sit down and regain composure.  

"I wonder who the worst is between the sorcerer who casted the curse and the man who was too weak to resist its effects," Duncan mused out loud, clearly trying to drive John mad once more. The brunet grasped the edge of the table and his knuckles turned white as he glared at the other lord, but he stayed quiet.

"With all due respect, Lord Duncan," Mike intervened, "if I may give you a friendly piece of advice: watch your tongue when you speak about my brothers, because I might want to cut it off."

Duncan seemed offended but he didn't dare speak again.  

"That wasn't better than what I said," John pointed out, only for Mike to hear.  

"At least, I didn't yell," the other replied with smirk.

"Time is up," the regulator announced a few seconds later as the hourglass emptied itself from its last amount of sand.

They proceeded to the second vote and John bit his lip nervously, waiting for the result. Lord Duncan's accusations hadn't been good for him at all. He only had three votes in his favor. Duncan had five pinecones on his parchment and one of the clans had decided to abstain. Duncan only needed one more vote to become Great Lord.

As soon as the regulator turned the hourglass upside down for the new round of debate, John was the first one to step into the arena. "I hear your concern about the dangers of witchcraft," he told the chieftains, trying to stay in control and keep a calm, steady voice. "I'm well aware that if humans try to play with the evil forces of the ancient gods, they could put us all in danger. But I can swear on my ancestors that my husband is not a sorcerer. He had been raised in our country, in our customs, among the respectable clan of the Johnsons. The spirits had made him one of them – one of us. He loathes the ancient gods and black magic as much as you and me."

"Everybody knows his mother was a witch!" Lord McCallum vociferated.  "She never told anybody her surname or the name of the man who had gotten her pregnant. She had something to hide,"  

"Maybe she had something to hide, but it wasn't necessarily witchcraft," John replied. "Do you really think Lord Johan Johnson would have married her if he suspected she was a witch? He was more intelligent than that. And what proof do you have that Anders is a sorcerer; the color of his hair? That's a bit thin don't you think?"

There was an awkward silence in the council hall. Even Lord Duncan didn't seem to find something to reply to that.

"I love my husband and I would defend him no matter what," Lord Mitchell went on, more confident than he’d ever been since the beginning of the council, as if the mention of his love for Anders was keeping him grounded. "I feel the same about the North Hills. My father, may the spirits shelter his soul, used to say: ' _Strength builds armies; only the heart makes rulers_ '. I know that the attachment I have for my husband, for my clan, for my country, is what makes me worthy." He turned to his opponent and drilled his gaze in his. "If you mistake love for weakness, Lord Duncan, then it means that you are not worthy to be Great Lord."

John sat down, feeling that his words had had their effect on his audience. The discussion and debate drifted to other subjects and away from the slippery slope of his marriage's matter. He was grateful for that, because tax collections, roads, grain trade and fortifications: these were things he could discuss without getting emotional.

When the hourglass ran out of sand: the situation got a bit better for John during the third vote. He had now four votes while Duncan had three. Two clans had chosen abstention. Still, he was far from a sure victory.

"We should take a two hour break," Mikkel suggested. Everybody agreed and left the room.

***

John ignored the goblet of wine Lady Mitchell was handing out for him. He was too busy sulking and pacing in his mother's apartments while waiting for the end of the break in her company and the one of his brother-in-law. He wasn't able to eat: his stomach clenched with anger, disappointment and stress. One thing could help him: holding his husband tight against him and bury his face in his soft hair, but he couldn't. First of all because nobody knew where Anders was, but George was nowhere to be seen either, so they were probably together and John trusted his friend to protect his consort. The second thing was that maybe Anders would not even let himself be hugged if he was there.

"From Hugh Mitchell to Father, for four generations our family ruled over the North Hills: what would my ancestors think of me if I failed?" John growled. "What will I say to Dadaìth once I meet him in the afterlife?"

"You father knew your true valor, John," Lady Ann comforted him.

"Father wanted me to succeed to him: why else would he have written in his will that he wished me to get married within the moon following his death?"

"The only thing James wanted was for you to be happy," she told him. "You have your husband - you have your castle and your lands; you don't need that title."  

"What is going to happen if Duncan becomes Great Lord? Did you think about that?" John despaired. "He is going to strip us of Bailtean city. He will reduce us to poverty to make sure the Mitchells clan disappears from the map. You know he's always been against Father's reforms. The first thing Duncan will do once he is elected Great Lord is to abolish the schools, because he needs cheap child labor for his iron mines in the mountains. He's going to destroy all of what Father worked so hard to build. I can't give up. Duncan tries to convince everybody that I'm under Anders' spell and that he is a sorcerer. The spirits know what he can do to him if he gets the power to change the laws. Yes. That's true. I have my husband, and I will do anything that is in my power to make sure he and our heirs won't have to live in a country ruled by Robert Duncan."

"I don't understand. If the chieftains really wanted to counteract your election, they should have voted against your marriage, and they didn't," Lady Ann observed.

"The only reason why Duncan and his allies finally chose to vote in favor of my wedding is because they knew that now I'm associated with Anders forever, it gives more weight to their arguments against me."

"Do you regret taking him as a husband?" Lord Johnson asked, concerned.

"No. Never. I don't regret it," John replied firmly.  

"If only we knew who the two abstentions are, we could probably get them to vote for you, my liege," Lord Johnson pondered.  

"The abstentions are most likely Lord Blackwood and Lady Keir,” the younger lord analyzed. “It's like them to try to bet on the winning horse, and for now, the outcome of the race isn't clear, so they don't want to choose a side yet."

"We are going to make them choose our side," Mikkel decided. "We can't bribe them: that would be illegal, but we can find other… incentives. It's a good thing I still have two brothers to betroth. Lord Blackwood was hesitant to give his sister to my younger brother because Axl isn't first heir, but now that I think about it, I can make him first in line easily. If I give Ty away to clan Keir by marrying him to Lady Dawn, then Axl becomes my first heir. If I can conclude those matrimonial alliances before the end of the break, we would be able to get the two missing votes you need."

It could work, and it was perfectly legal, but John still felt uneasy about the idea. "What would your brothers think about this?" he asked Mikkel. Tyrone would surely be over the moon, but Axl… and Annie...?

"They'll understand it is for the greater good," Lord Johnson assured him.

Mitchell sighed. Did he have a choice? "Fine," he said, giving his assent to Mikkel's plan. Before he could ponder it any longer, the other lord had already left the room to go negotiate his younger brothers' future.  

John sat on the edge of his mother's bed and rubbed his face with both hands. Sometimes he wished he was a peasant and that his decisions had only an impact on the life of a few sheep or chickens and not on an awful lot of other humans.

***

John and Mikkel didn't speak to each other when they entered the council hall and sat back at their place, but Lord Johnson made a little sign of the head to his brother-in-law and John interpreted that the marriage negotiations had gone well.

The regulator suggested a new vote straight away and his proposition didn't encounter any opposition, which meant that Duncan was fairly sure of his own victory. John hoped he wasn't aware of the alliances that had been concluded a few minutes ago.

Once all the engraved plates had been placed in the box and put on the table in front of the regulator, John held his breath. The young man sensed it was the decisive vote. He didn’t have any control over the situation anymore. He could just wait anxiously for the chieftains' decision.

The priest reached a hand over the table, took the two pinecones that were on the "abstention" parchment and moved them to the one with John's name on it. "With six votes against three: the new Great Lord of the North Hills is Lord Mitchell of Brastàl," he announced.

John started breathing again as Mike clapped him on the shoulder. He had expected to feel joy: instead, it was just an odd kind of exhausted relief. He had done it for his father, for his ancestors, for his family, not for himself. He couldn't take pride from a victory based on a lie.

***

The enthronement of the new Great Lord would take place in half an hour. Mitchell planned to spend these few minutes with his husband. He had to tell him the good news after all. The young lord frowned as he walked outside of the council hall and spotted George waiting for him, alone.

"He was there, with me, I turned away for a second and then he disappeared and I couldn't find him anywhere," the guard told his friend in an urgent whisper, anticipating John's unspoken question.  

John prompted himself not to make up ugly scenarios in his mind, even if the sudden paleness of his face gave away his concern. "Have you checked the stables?"

"Yes. His horse is still there. I also checked the garden, all the rooms on the second and third floors, the kitchens, the servants' quarters, the armory-"

" The library?"

"Yes."

"He can't have vanished, for the spirits' sake!" John exclaimed, looking around like he expected to see Anders appear out of thin air. "Maybe he went to town on foot."

"I'm really sorry, John," George apologized.  "He tried to escape my guard all day long… at some point he succeeded."

"It's fine, George. I'm not mad at you," John sighed.  "I know that my husband can be quite rebel and pigheaded, but for now, my first priority is to find him."

"Where do we start? I already checked everywhere inside the castle and in the courtyard."

John tried to think: where would Anders go if he wanted to have time on his own?  "I think I know where to find him."

"You want me to come?"

"No, thanks, stay here, keep an eye on Lord Duncan and his kin," Mitchell ordered before taking his leave as fast as possible, trying not to look too suspicious to the  ruling families' members who were starting to gather in the great hall to attend to his enthronement.  

John ran up the stairs leading to the rooftop of the donjon's  tower, feeling his heart racing, not really from the physical effort but mainly from the fear that whoever had left that dead turtledove on their doorstep might have put their dark plan in execution and hurt his husband. The door at the top of the stairs was ajar and Mitchell pushed it open.

He had had a good intuition, Anders was indeed there, but John felt his heart stop when he saw him. The blond man had his back turned on him. He was seated on the top of the low wall circling the rooftop; his legs were hanging on the other side, his neck was bent as he was looking at the empty space under his feet. A fall from that height would inevitably be fatal, but maybe, it was exactly what Anders wanted. The Great Lord reacted by instinct before Anders even realized he was there. He grabbed his husband's waist and pulled him back to safety. They both tumbled down on the hard stone floor.

The blond let out a scared cry and struggled to get out his husband's grip. "Damned Gods! Mitchell! You want to give me a heart attack or what!? Let go of me!"

"George searched for you everywhere!" John scolded the smaller man as he freed him.

"I wasn't going to fall! Why did you grab me like that?" Anders asked, still slightly shaken as he stood up and dusted his kilt. He read the answer in John's eyes. "You were thinking I was about to jump," he realized, incredulous. "I value my life more than that, you know."

"You shouldn't have stayed alone here. It would have been so easy for anybody to push you off."

Anders sighed, visibly irritated. "Nobody is planning on murdering me. The person who put that dead bird in front of your door just wants to scare you and you're falling into their trap. Stop being so worried about me: the trials are over, you know."

Yes. The trials had made them bond in adversity, but now that things had calmed down a bit, it was like they had taken a step back, away from each other. Anders' snarky behavior and the careful distance he kept with John seemed to be the same as it was on the first day they had met. But in the meantime, John had grown fonder of his foxy little man and now, he could feel the bite of rejection and the confusion elicited by the mixed messages Anders was keeping on sending him with even more accuracy.

"While you're here fussing over me like I’m a toddler who could get lost on the market place if you don't hold my hand all day long, you're not doing politics and that could cost you your title. Right now you should be with the other chieftains, walking and talking: securing your election," Anders added.  

"I don't have to do that anymore. The election is already over: the North Hills have their new Great Lord," John informed him.  

"Oh," Anders breathed, little creases of concern forming between his pale eyebrows. "Who is it?"

A sudden, unexpected satisfaction tugged the corners of Mitchell's lips up. "Your beloved husband, my dear," he announced.  

Something lightened up in the blue eyes for a split second, something John had failed to feel for himself: pride and joy. But a second after: it was already gone, like Anders was ashamed of those emotions. "Good," the Aklànder stated, serious.  "They would have been stupid not to choose you. I'm pleased to see you didn't marry me for nothing."

The young lord felt like anything  he could reply to that would be misinterpreted, but he had to sort out the events of their wedding night since they had not dared bring up the subject in the morning. The unsolved argument was still floating between them like a dark veil of smoke. "I'm sorry for last night," John began, taking his husband's hand and running his thumb on the back of it. "I shouldn't have told you about the price your brother asked for you. It was far from gentlemanly.”

"It's fine."

"You said we were friends," John reminded him "can we at least act as such?"

Anders looked down, playing with a dried leaf with the heel of his boot. "I think we can try."

John reached a hand and ran it gently in the blond hair the wind had mingled. "But you know that I want more than just friendship…" he whispered.

"Yes. I know."

The brunet’s thumb traced the line of the smaller man’s jawline, appreciating its virile angle. "Don't you like it at all when I'm close to you?" John asked, his voice suddenly low and hoarse. "When I touch you?" he added, his fingertips brushing the side of his husband neck. He couldn't talk any louder because desire was suddenly strangling him. It seemed like every centimeter of his husband's skin was calling him with its own inaudible and bewitching song. He wanted to devour Anders' body with kisses like the wolf feasting on the still warm prey. The chieftains were maybe right after all: he was under Anders' spell, but one that had nothing to do with witchcraft.

The blond was now holding his gaze with his face completely still, just like the one of a marble statue. John's hand slid to the smaller man's waist where he pulled his shirt from under his belt to have access to the hot skin of his waist underneath. The brunet could see that his consort's neutral expression was hiding a tempest of a rare violence – a war inside. Leaning forward he brushed his lips on the blond's ear shell: "Look me in the eyes, Anders, and tell me you don't feel anything at all," he whispered, running his palm, calloused from years of sword training, on the delicate curve of his husband's waist.    

There was a long silence. Anders shivered, holding the dark amber gaze darted on his face.  He seemed to hesitate and suddenly, he parted his lips to reply but didn't have the time to do so because the herald of the castle appeared in the doorway, breathless. "Your Highness, Your Grace, you are expected in the great hall," he called them.

"For you enthronement," Anders understood tucking his shirt back in his kilt. John nodded, disappointed. The momentum had passed and he wouldn't get to know what his husband was about to confess.

As soon as they reached the hall, the herald announced them to the assembly: "Ladies, lords and sirs: may I present you His Highness John Mitchell and His Grace Anders Johnson Mitchell, Great Lord and Great Consort of the North Hills."

The nobles of the clans bowed down to the couple as they made their way to the high chair where John would sit during the enthronement ceremony.

John received the sword and the shield of the ruler – the weapons his forefathers had borne before him. Lady Ann transmitted the silver torc of the Great Consort to her son-in-law since she had to pass-on the title to Anders.

After he had received his own insignia, it was the blond's task to put the Great Lords' golden torc on Mitchell's neck.  As he stood to the left side of the high seat, Anders gently brushed John's plait out of the way to place the torc around his neck. The blond's fingertips grazed the side of John's neck. Was it a response to the caress John had given him when they were alone on the rooftop?  The young lord couldn't tell if his husband did it on purpose or not. He still smiled at Anders and captured his chin to pull him down for a light kiss. During the whole ceremony, Anders always stayed at his side and his gaze never left him, like a silent but comforting presence.

 

Then, it was the chieftains' turn to come in front of him one by one and to pledge allegiance in their name and the name of their clan. Without surprise, Lord Duncan nearly groveled at his feet asking his forgiveness and to assuring him of his undying loyalty. John was not naïve enough to believe that the man had any remorse whatsoever: but the North Hills unity was based on the cohesion and the peace among the clans. They already had the nomads to fight: a civil war was the last thing the country needed, so, as much as John wanted to slay him for having insulted his beloved, he forced a smile and gave Duncan his forgiveness and his friendship.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

***

 

In the North Hills, every occasion was a pretext for a banquet, but after three days of trials, one of tournament, the wedding and the enthronement, John started thinking that with all that rich food, he probably gained a pound or two. He wasn't really concerned by those matters: nobody would notice. He threw a side-glance at his husband, wondering if Anders had gained weight as well. If he did: it didn't show at all. John would love to get his husband naked and verify by himself. Inevitably his thoughts drifted to what was hidden under Anders' clothes.

John saw Annie enter the room, holding a tray with a food plate on it. She walked straight to the Duncans' table. The Great Lord's eyes followed her as he took a sip from his goblet. She put the plate in front of Lord Duncan and told him a few words, probably that it was a meal cooked especially for him. She took her leave immediately and Robert Duncan's face went pale. On the middle of his plate, on the top of a heap of lettuce leaves, there was a plucked and roasted bird, prepared in a strange way: with an arrow piercing it. Lord Duncan threw panicked glances at Lord Ramsay McCallum and Lord Hendry McGregor from across the room and Mitchell could see the same panic mirroring in the two lords’ eyes.

John smirked as he planted his knife in the beef steak in his plate. Now he was sure about the identity of the people who tried to intimidate him and who he had to keep an eye on.He heard a chuckle at his side. Obviously, his foxy little man had followed the whole scene. "That's what I call statesmanship done right," Anders complimented him. John turned his head and their eyes met long enough for him to wink at his husband.

***

 

John's head was pounding painfully thanks to a nasty headache. Since the clans would leave Brastàl on the following day, after the banquet he had had to attend to another endless meeting. It was late and dark when he returned to his bedroom after the chieftains have gone back to their camps. He knew Anders was waiting for him in his room and all he hoped for was to talk some more with his husband and go to bed. John had decided he would not endure the humiliation of having to sleep with George once again. His consort would have to get used to his presence in their bed sooner or later. If John kept on spending his nights elsewhere, people would surely notice and start gossiping.

He had just passed in front of the library's door and was heading up to the staircase when he saw a fleeting shadow out of the corner of his eye. He had seen it long enough to tell that a hooded figure had escaped around the corner. Obviously, this person was trying to hide their identity, just like he had been forced to do the night before.  The intimidation attempt involving the dead bird had kept Mitchell on edge all day long. Someone hiding like that in the castle at night was surely up to no good.

Tracking the mysterious individual in the castle's corridors as silently as possible, John took his dagger from its sheath slowly. The person under the cloak had heard John because he stopped, like he was listening, trying to figure out if he had been followed. John sneaked behind him and pushed the assassin against the wall. His prisoner let out a high pitched, muffled cry when John put his dagger under his throat before pulling the hood off his head. It wasn't an assassin… and it wasn't a "he" either.

John gasped as he recognized his friend and put his dagger down." Never do that again! I could have killed you!" he told her.  

The maid gulped, looking ashamed.

"Why are you hiding like that!? Where are you going!? " he questioned her.

"You know where I am going, don't you?"

"Axl…" the young man breathed.  He put his dagger back in its sheath and placed his hands on her shoulders gently. "You can't meet him," he told her, feeling sorry for the young woman. "I promised  Lord Johnson that you would not see Sir Axl again."

Even in the dark he could see how upset she was. "When someone wins, someone else has to lose," she snapped. "You won your place as the supreme leader: I lost my lover who is now engaged to another. Can't I at least say farewell to him?"

"That's not a good idea…"

"I thought that of all people you would have understood," she said with tears in her voice, "especially now that you know what it feels like to love somebody."

"Oh Annie," John breathed, dragging her into a hug. "Please, don't cry," he begged between kisses on the top of her head.

"He is waiting for me in the garden," she sobbed, "he said he wanted to give me something so I would remember him."   

With the dissensions between the clans, Mitchell needed the support of the Johnsons more than ever. They were his closest allies. He couldn't take the risk of betraying Mikkel's trust by allowing Annie to meet Axl. Maybe this was just an infatuation going on between the maid and the heir, but his friend was in distress and John hated that more than anything else. If the same thing had happened to Anders and him, as crazy as it seemed, he knew he would be ready to tear the world apart to be able to see him one last time.

"Fine," he murmured in her hair. "You can go."

"Really?" she asked, full of hope, looking at him from below.

"Yes, but if Lord Johnson discovers the truth, I won't be able to have your back," he warned her.

"Thank you," she replied, hugging him," thank you so much, Johnny."

He smiled sadly. It's been years since she hadn't called him that way. He felt so old now: as if the little boy he once was had never existed at all.  He watched her trot away in the dark corridor.  He thought of her, Axl and their impossible love.  Anders' words came back to his mind:" _At least, there will be one of the Johnso_ _n_ _brothers marrying out of love_."   Given the recent events, it now sounded like a prophecy.

***

The way the blond man was acting as they were preparing to go to bed, making detours in the room to avoid passing close to John and make their personal spaces collide was telling: the brunet had to forget any plans of tender embraces. Anders got behind the folding screen to strip from his kilt and put on a night shirt while the brunet was doing the same at the other side. As soon as they got under the covers and that John drew the velvet curtains around the bed, the aklànder had already rolled onto his side, turning his back on his husband.  

The silence in the room was deafening.

"You're asleep?" John asked after a while.

"Not quite. Working on it," was the grumbled response.  

"When the clans are gone tomorrow afternoon, we should take our horses out and go for a ride in the hills together."

"Hm."

"Goodnight, my love."

"Hm. Night"

When John closed his eyes, he almost expected to see Anders in his mind once more. Much to his surprise it was not his husband he started to think about but somebody else – a sad ghost from the past, still haunting a corner of his heart.

 

The nomad raids had been particularly intense that winter, two years ago…

 _It was the night, just before a major offensive of the North Hills’ army. John had attended to a strategy meeting with the chieftains and his father and was going back to the area where the soldiers were sleeping, along the walls of Greenlea city. John could have slept in the tents with the other Lords, but he preferred to sleep with his men. The soldiers had always more respect for a leader who proved he could endure the same discomfort_ _as_ _them. The men from Brastàl's contingent were lying under the stars, on the cold ground barely covered with a layer of straw, wrapped in their wool blankets. John took his own blanket from his bag and found a space to lie down between two sleeping forms._

 

 _The night was freezing and John could hear the teeth of the young soldier next to him clatter_ _ing_ _. At some point, in his cold induced drowsiness, the other man snuggled unconsciously against John. The soldier didn't seem older than eighteen or nineteen years old – a young beauty with a fair beardless face, a pointy chin and short, curly, black hair. Not wanting him to die, John took him in his arms to transmit him his warmth. Soon, the soldier stopped shaking and relaxed in the embrace._

 _Later, he blinked his eyes open and they widened instantly with panic when he noticed in whose arms he was, but John smiled at him._ _When he realized that his lord's heir didn't mind the closeness at all, he slung an arm around the brunet's waist and held John against him. The heir rubbed the soldier's back gently in an attempt to warm him up. The younger man rested his head on John's shoulder and they just stayed like that for a while, not sharing a single word: just their body warmth. At some point, the young soldier stretched his neck to kiss the warrior on the cheek shyly. John took that kiss for a gesture of gratitude, but when he looked down into the boy's eyes, he understood that he was craving for affection and reassurance. The soldier was afraid, lost, confused. John stroke_ _d_ _his chin fondly and put his lips on the other man's. The boy heaved a content sigh, like someone who sits in front of a nice fire burning in the hearth after a day outside in the storm. For the rest of the night they touched and kissed in silence with the tenderness of an old couple, not trying to take it any further. They slept on and off and watched over one another in turn._

_When the hoarse sound of the carnyx horn woke them up in the morning, they had to part in a hurry. John lost the sight of the young soldier and his mind had to stay focused on the task of leading his men to victory. The North Hills' army won the battle and John made a hero of himself. The nomads had lost more men than the clans but there were still victims on both sides. Walking on the battlefield to sort the dead from the wounded, John finally found him._

 

_The poor boy was severely injured from an arrow piercing his throat. The soldier was barely conscious when John kneeled by his side and took him in his arms once more. The dried, pale lips with blood smearing their corner smiled weakly when the glazed eyes recognized John. The heir rocked him in his arms, whispering soothing words until Maor came to pluck the boy's soul and put it in its bag for the long travel to the lands of spirits. John pressed a last kiss to the unresponsive lips and lifted the body in his arms. The soldier was wearing a necklace with a star as a pendant, so the brunet carried him to the funeral pyre of the fallen children of Selit._

  
John couldn't forget his unexpected, one-night lover whose name he had never got to know.  Anders reminded him of this young man—there was something similar in their eyes. He sensed that the reason why the young soldier had sought his affection that night was the same reason why Anders was rejecting it.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_John and Anders' wedding tattoos as requested by a reader after the last chapter._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to let me know your thoughts, lovelies. It never goes unnoticed.


	11. Checkmate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The young lord took the fallen chess piece in his hand and studied it pensively. He closed his fist around it. George was right. Just like his black king: John had no escape anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think I can thank enough the poeple who work on that story with me. They give me inspiration and they give life to the characters of this story. One million hugs to katyushha and dragon4488.

"There wasn't enough space on the boat, so we had to leave some of Anders' belongings in Aklànd. Among those things there were his winter clothes," Mikkel informed John. "I'm going to ship them here but it may take a while."  

Anders' family were the last clan to leave Brastàl. The Great Lord and his consort had accompanied them to the docks to bid them a good trip.

"Don't worry," John reassured his brother-in-law, "I won't let my husband freeze. I'll send a servant to buy him a cloak in town first thing in the morning."

"I can take care of that myself," Anders snorted at his brother's attention, "Mitchell is not my babysitter."

Mikkel patted the blond's shoulder. "Behave yourself, little brother."

"Yeah… yeah…, off you go now."

The two lords grabbed each other's forearms. "Good luck, my liege," Mikkel told him, "and you have my blessing to ignore him when he is being a little shit."

"Oi! You're speaking of the Great Consort, peasant," the blond man protested.

Mikkel bowed with a smirk, "I beg your pardon, your grace."

"That's better," Anders approved.

 

Then, it was Axl and Olaf's turn to say goodbye, dragging the smaller man into a group hug before the amused gaze of the brastàler.

"Me and my lady fiancée have settled the date of our premarital trials for the spring gathering," Ty told John. "If we succeed, we'd like you and Anders to be our witnesses for the wedding."

"Of course," John grinned. "We'd be honored to attend the ceremony."

"Indeed," Anders agreed. "Weddings mean banquets and I can't say no to free drinks."

Ty shook his head and sighed but he was still smiling. "Take care of him," he told John.

"I will."

The pale young man bowed in front of the Great Lord and his consort and joined his family in the boat as the Johnsons’ servants weighed the anchor.

John and Anders stayed on the docks until they lost sight of the boat down the river.

"It won't be long until you see them again," the brunet told Anders, circling his shoulders in a comforting gesture. "You'll be reunited with your brothers at the spring gathering."

"What are you talking about?" Anders grunted. "I'm happy to finally be rid of them."

John didn't have to be an oracle to tell that his husband was lying.

 

***

Later that day, he asked Anders if he fancied a horse ride in the hills with him. "Not today, I feel tired," Anders gave as an excuse, and he retreated to their room for the rest of the afternoon. Understanding that his husband wished to be on his own, the brunet took his quiver and his bow in the armory and went to the archery field. At that time, he couldn't predict that within a fortnight, his relationship with his husband was going to deteriorate drastically.

He would spend most of his free time at the archery field and shoot a lot of arrows that week, because Anders would decline his invitation again on the following day, and on the day after as well.

By the end of the week, John's fingers were sore and bleeding, as was his heart. The dinners he was sharing with his consort were quite silent: Anders only answering questions briefly when asked. The rest of the time, he was avoiding John.  

Three more days passed, all similar, and the spouses barely spoke to each other, because now John was avoiding his husband as well. Being in Anders' presence only reminded  him of his own incapacity to make his marriage work.

The moments when they were going to bed together grew more awkward each day. The young lord wanted to touch his spouse and hold him, but he was scared of rejection, or worse: of seeing fear and disgust in the blue eyes, so he stayed on his part of the bed, silent, pretending to sleep. Most of the time, after he was sure his consort was asleep, John was spending the rest of the night just staring at the ceiling or seated in the armchair and putting logs in the fire to keep the room warm.  

 

One night, he decided he’d had enough. Once Anders was asleep, he got dressed as silently as possible and left the room.

He went knocking at George's door. Fortunately, the guard was not in bed yet. "It's Anders again, I suppose," he sighed as he let his friend in.

"I don't want to speak about my husband," John specified, letting himself fall on a chair of the small kitchen.

"We should get pissed," the guard decided.

"You. are. a. genius, George," John approved, detaching every word.  

And they did. They got drunk; very drunk. Only one key could unlock the supply room of the guardhouse that kept a respectable stockpile of whisky and wine bottles. Chief Guard Sands was the happy owner of that key. He and John made a good use of that privilege that night.

The spirit of feasts knows how, but the Great Lord of the North Hills, who was more like a alcohol soaked larva, managed to make his drunken way up the castle's stairs on his own before sunrise. It also took him long minutes to understand how his door handle was working. When he finally reached his bed, he was stunned to notice that there was another man in it. His confusion went on for a few seconds before he remembered he was married and that this stranger in his bed was in fact his husband.

 

That's how he realized that he had started giving up on Anders.

 

***

John's nightly escapades became a habit. He was leaving the castle at night by the main door now, not bothering wearing his hood anymore. He didn't give a damn that people could see him and gossip.

During the day, he attended to his duties as the lord of Brastàl: replying to letters, studying maps, attending to the justice court sessions. He had enough to do to keep himself distracted. He found new reasons every day to shorten his dinners in Anders' company and even started to skip them most of the time, working in the council hall until late in the evenings and asking the servants to bring him his meal there. He joined his husband in their bed, but only for an hour or so because he left as soon as the blond man was asleep.

Lady Mitchell was concerned about her son and she asked him why he wasn't spending more time with his spouse. He blamed it on the amount of work he had to get done before the winter. She didn't seem convinced. Annie tried to talk to him as well, with the same results.

***

George looked sad for him as well, and John hated to see the pity in his eyes.

"We should drink something," the brunet suggested.

It was way past midnight and he was at the guardhouse once again, playing chess with George.

"No. Not tonight, John," the guard said, making his rook move forward on the board. "You're drinking too much for your own sake lately."

"Oh, come on, since when did you become such a maiden?" John taunted him, capturing one of his friend's pawns.

"Since I realized you're on the verge of becoming an alcoholic," George replied, tit for tat, capturing John's knight. "I don't want to seem egoist, but you'll have to grow a pair and speak to Anders at some point, because I have to sleep a full night from time to time."

John rested on the back of his chair and crossed his arms, frowning, "Is this how you speak to your Great Lord?"

"No. This is how I speak to my best friend," the guard stated, deadpan. "Checkmate, by the way," he added, flicking John's king out of the board.

The young lord took the fallen chess piece in his hand and studied it pensively. He closed his fist around it. George was right. Just like his black king: John had no escape anymore.

***

 

 

When John opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was the black queen on the middle of the game board and the morning light covering the table where he had fallen asleep like a white tablecloth. He stood up with a groan and stretched his sore back. He had slept for too long. George was gone. Anders was probably already awake and had noticed his absence.

He hastened to leave the guardhouse and jogged back to the castle. He hoped against hope to find his husband still asleep, but after he had tried to open the door as softly as possible not to make a single noise, he found his bed and the bedroom empty.

That wasn't a good start for a discussion meant for them to build bridges.

The young man tossed his coat and shirt on the bed and took the kettle hung in the fireplace under the cooling embers. Once the hot water was poured into the small basin on the low cabinet, he proceeded to wash his neck and shoulders.  

"Where were you last night?" asked a displeased voice behind his back. John hadn't heard his consort enter the room.  He didn't turn around to look at him right away. Instead, he cupped more water from the basin and splashed it on his tired face "With George," he replied honestly.  

"Again?"

Resting his hands flat on the table, the brunet bent his head forward with a sigh. Of course Anders knew. How could have he been naive enough to think his clever husband would not notice his frequent absences from the conjugal bed. "Yes," he conceded, grabbing a towel to dry his face.  

"Do you fuck him?" came the blunt question from behind his back.

The lord had a nervous chuckle. "Beg your pardon?" he asked, startled, finally turning around to acknowledge his partner.

Anders' jaw was tense; his blue eyes ice cold and he didn't seem to find it funny at all. "You heard me the first time."

"No, he is my friend and the chief of my guard, nothing else," John specified.  

"Is it the only thing that keeps you from making a move with him?"

"There is also the fact I'm married to another."

"Most men don't see it as an obstacle," the aklànder pointed out.  

 

John, like his Mitchell ancestors before him, was short-tempered. Some said it was in the water of Castle Brastàl's well.  This, combined with the lack of sleep and the fact that Anders had already tested the boundaries of his patience more than once, contributed to making him lose it. "First of all, I'm not most men," John growled. "Secondly, you made it quite clear that you did not wish to be touched by me: therefore, your jealousy is quite unreasonable and unjustified."

It was Anders' turn to laugh. "I am the one being unreasonable, huh? May I remind you that _you_ were the one ranting about how we had to hide at all costs the fact we don't sleep together as spouses must, and now you are deserting the room openly and publicly and coming back every morning, drunker than a winemaker on the autumn feast." Anders had grown dark and nothing seemed to be able to stop him until he would have spat all his venom out. "Yesterday, one of the manservants, a former conquest of yours as I understood, offered to tell me what you like in bed so I'd be able to prevent you from seeking distractions elsewhere. I politely told him to fuck off and mind his own business. And you dare call me jealous!? It's rich coming from you! You're always watching me like every decision I made was a bad one or like I would jump on the first woman available like a dog in heat," the blond man accused him.  

"Is it so bad that I want to keep an eye on what's mine?" John huffed. Anders' words were pushing the right buttons and he was too angry now to be ashamed of his own behavior.  

“I don't belong to you, Mitchell!" Anders hissed. "I'm not some piece of jewellery you can put back in its box as soon as you're tired of looking at it! You're treating me like you treat your servants you call your 'friends' just to feel less bad to have them serving you. You call me your 'love' only to comfort yourself about the fact you've used me to get your way."

Mitchell's eyes narrowed with contempt. After all he did for him; his husband had no right to say such things. "I endured the cold and the rain; I faced wild beasts for you. I _fought_ for you," he enumerated. "I gave you my prestigious name. I did everything that was in my power to make you feel welcome in my clan and my castle and this is how you thank me!? By insulting me under my own roof? You know what!? _You_ should be grateful since…" John's voice trailed off when he realized that he was about to tell Anders how he had taken his defense against Duncan who accused him of being a sorcerer. He figured out it was not a good thing to say, because he would look like he was complaining about the fact he had to stand up for him. But it was too late and Anders' gaze was already filled with poison.

"Grateful since what!?" the blond bellowed. "Since you've been charitable enough to marry Johan Johnson's funny-looking bastard son!?"

"I wasn't going to say that," John snapped back.  

"You're a bloody liar."

"Enough!" John shouted, banging his fist against the low cabinet, making the kettle dance dangerously close to the edge.  "What exactly are you trying to do, make me hate you?" he asked as he drilled his glare in Anders', making a few steps toward him. The blond man stepped back, his eyes wide for a second. The ever gentle and patient John was not gentle or patient anymore and Anders surely hadn't expected such an outburst of temper.

"I have news for you, it won't work,” the brunet went on, thunder roaring in his voice and fire blazing in his dark eyes. “But I'm your lord and husband, Anders Mitchell, you owe me respect!" he ordered. "I don't even ask for your love, I renounced it, but I won't stay around you until you learn to act with deference as your duty toward me commands."

The aklànder soon regained his snarky attitude. "Yes, my lord," Anders replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Yeah… maybe that's exactly what you want: that I don't stick around," John mused out loud. "It suits you, doesn't it?"

The blond man didn't try to contradict it. In fact, he didn't say anything.  

"Fine, you'll be pleased then," the lord groaned, grabbing his shirt and storming out of the room.

 

 

***

The air was humid and heavy in the enclosed courtyard of the castle's west wing. The young man wasn't really feeling it even if he was sweating, his shirt sticking to his wet back.  With a ferocious cry he hammered the training dummy with all his strength. He had already half-destroyed the thing with his sword and was planning on hitting it over and over until he turned it into a heap of wood chips.

"Your highness, there is a…" the voice of a young servant interrupted him. The boy gulped, suddenly forgetting what he was about to ask when his lord turned toward him, a blood-thirsty look on his face, his broad shoulders lifting and falling with his heavy panting.

"I…I…will… come back later…" the servant mumbled, taking his leave right away.

John dried his mouth with the back of his sleeve and focused on his wooden enemy once again.  Taking out all the anger, the frustration and the helplessness out of his body and mind: that was his first priority. Only after that he would be able to think properly.

His eyes caught movement on the second floor's balcony and when he looked up; they met the ones of his husband. How long had Anders been standing there, observing him? John chose to ignore his presence and went back to his training. When he peeked at the balcony a few seconds later, Anders was gone.

The brunet continued his destruction work until he wore himself out. He rested his forehead against what was left of the training dummy and he closed his eyes, trying to catch his breath. He was not angry with his husband anymore. He was just hurt. Anders' accusations: justified or not, were like many sharp thorns piercing his flesh. Some of the things the blond had said, he knew he had deserved them, and they were the most painful ones. It was true that he was acting with his husband like he didn't trust him, like the blond was not able to take care of himself and was always on the verge of straying out of the right path. John's strong sense of duty had also made him look like he only cared about becoming Great Lord. This title felt like a burden to him more than anything else. He would rather be nobody, but have the love of his husband. Because one thing of all Anders said wasn't true at all: none of the endearments he had said to him were meant to make himself stop feeling guilty. He truly loved his husband and wished to be loved by him in return. Now it seemed to be a foolish wish.

 

***

It turned out that what the servant boy had been charged to tell him was quite urgent. Some people nobody had been able to identify had stolen one of the Mitchell family’s boats from the Quigley river's docks during the night. The criminals had driven it to the middle of the river, tied it to the crane of the torture cage and had set it on fire. According to the witnesses who had been woken up by the light of the fire  (some fishermen living by the river), the thieves had left to the other side of the river in a barge.

John had had to saddle his horse and go to the docks where he spent the rest of the day, trying to figure out who could have done that and helping the fishermen to drag the burnt remains of the boat to the river bank. Lord Mitchell had the bad feeling that, just like the dead turtledove, this was a political gesture meant to scare him; a warning. He doubted that Lord Duncan and his allies were behind these actions, which made it even more concerning.

 

The sun was nearly set and black clouds had begun gathering in dark masses in the sky when John climbed on Pessa's back. Even before the young man told her to move, the mare had already started to trot along the road in the direction of the castle – a few more steps and she was already galloping. "You seem quite in a hurry to get back to the stables," John told her. "I guess you're just looking forward to hearing Ornàn flirt with you from the other side of your common fence, you vain creature."

When John led her inside the stables and into her box, Anders' stallion snickered to welcome the female. "Don't worry, mate," the man reassured the white horse that stretched his neck to sniff the mare over the fence, "I brought your girlfriend back in one piece."  Before leaving the stables, John stopped in front of Ornàn's box to pet him. "You know Anders better than I do," he told the stallion, "what can I do to make him hate me just a little less?" The animal enjoyed the petting but, as expected, didn't answer his question. The Great Lord pondered that he must be very desperate to ask relationship advice from a horse.

When he walked out of the stables, the sun was set. Standing in the middle of the courtyard, he lifted his gaze to the window of his bedroom. It was dark inside. Obviously, Anders had not regained their apartments yet.

A group of soldiers from the castle's guard were heading up to the gate to go back to the city after their working day. One of the guards hailed the young man. "We're going to the Lazy Lass for a pint, why don't you come with us, my lord?"

Hanging out with the guardsmen was something he used to do a lot before his father’s death… and his marriage. "Not tonight, sorry, I must-"

"You're working too much, your highness," another guard insisted with a friendly smile. "You have to loosen up from time to time."

"People must see you once in a while, or they'll start thinking the city is ruled by a ghost," another added.   

The brunet threw another glance at the dark window above. Anders wasn't there, and honestly, John had not figured out how to speak to his husband to make it right between them. Was it out of cowardice that he didn't want to face his spouse yet? He preferred to think that he had indeed to make himself seen by his people. The incident of the burned boat had made him realize he had to work on his popularity, and making public apparitions was one of his duties after all. "Fine," he replied, following the guards, "but just for one pint."

 

***

The Lazy Lass was crowded. The familiar smell of food, beer and people hit John when he passed through the door.

"Your highness… " mumbled a man who had nearly walked into the young man. All the revelers suddenly stopped chatting and took their headgear off as a sign of respect for their lord. The flute-player, seated in the corner of the tavern, put his instrument down.

"Please, my friends," John told them, "keep on enjoying yourself. Drinks are on me."

It didn't take more to convince the brastàlers to get on with their noisy party. John made his way to the bar, slipped a few silver coins in the waitress' hand to pay for the customers’ drinks and asked for a glass of ale for himself.

The guards who accompanied him to the tavern had taken seats around  one of the tables on the other side of the room, but the Great Lord didn't feel like joining them. He sat at the bar, waiting for his beer.

 

"Long time no see, my lord," said a flirty voice into his ear.

John had a little smile. He didn't have to turn around to know who it was. "Good evening, Miller," he greeted the young man when he sat by his side.

"I won't ask you what you were up to in the last months, because I already know the answer," said Miller teased him, his dark grey eyes sparkling with good humour. "The latest news says you got married and became the king of the world," he added, pointing at the golden torc around John's neck.  

"My ambitions don't extend to world domination. Great Lord of the North Hills is far enough for me," the lord chuckled as he took the beer glass the waitress had just put on the counter. "What have you been up to yourself?" John questioned, his gaze following the gesture as the other man brushed away his dark hair he was wearing in a long plait, as Bràstal's men fashion prescribed.

"I got married too," he answered, showing John the tattoo of a thistle inside his wrist.  

"I guess congratulations are in order."

"Bah. It was an arranged marriage, just like yours," his drinking companion replied blankly. "My bride is the daughter of another miller from Longdale. I'm to inherit her father's mill when he dies, so I'll have an estate to live on since my older brother is going to have Father's. The girl's not very beautiful or even intelligent, but she's a brave little wife."

John only nodded politely, not really sure what he should reply to that.

"I wasn't there at your tournament and your wedding procession," Miller went on, "but my cousin said that your Johnson boy has the eyes of a water fairy, that his hair looks like it absorbs sunlight. I guess it explains why we didn't see you around here for a while."   

John looked at the bottom of his glass like he wanted to drown his gaze in the brew. "Well, you know; with my father's death, the trials, the wedding and all… I've been busy."

Miller tilted his head to the side, trying to catch the lord's gaze. "If your husband is as fascinating as people say," he asserted, "I guess it's also the reason why you don't visit me anymore."

"We both knew it would come to that one day," the Great Lord pointed out, tracing the contour of his glass with his forefinger absentmindedly, "…that we would get married and swear to be faithful to our spouses."

Of all the lovers John had had in his life, Miller was probably the one he had for the longest time. One spring, John was coming back from Somerled on a freshly tamed Pessa when he spotted a man whose cart's wheels were stuck in the muddy ruts. The heir had jumped down his horse and offered his help to that young, handsome man who was in a hurry to go to Somerled's market to sell flour bags the same day. With the combined strength of their shoulders and arms, and the donkey pulling in front, they succeeded to take the cart out of the mud. The physical attraction between John and the young miller had been mutual and immediate. John escorted him to Somerled's market. When the day was over and the flour sold, he escorted him to an inn, and then into a room and, finally, under the warm covers of the bed. After that, they continued to see each other more or less regularly. John appreciated the other man's humour and lightsomeness. They got on well, in and out of bed, but it had never been more than that between them. The grey-eyed man never called him otherwise then "my lord," even before John actually became one. His real name was Ewen Fingall, but as a kind of friendly punishment, John always called him "Miller," in reference to his work.  

For a second, as he looked at his former lover, John asked himself what he had with men who refused to use his first name.

"Are you happy with that well-bred spouse of yours, my lord?" Miller asked him.  

"Yes. Of course," John said, avoiding the inquisitive gaze. "I'm very happy."

It wasn't true, but not entirely a lie either: Anders was unhappy with him and the fact John wasn't able to fix it was making him desperate… but his dearest wish was that they could be good together. So what he had said wasn't a lie: it was a wish, expressed by that little part of him that refused to give up hope.

Miller seemed to catch the hesitation in his voice, because he told him: "If for a reason or another you find out one day that you are not happy, you know that I'd be glad to comfort you." Moving his leg to the side, the young man exposed his knee from under his kilt and the beginning of a firm thigh. He reached a hand on the counter and put it on John's wrist. The Great Lord took his hand away and shook his head. "Listen. We had a great time together and I’ve always been fond of you. But I have Anders now, and you have your wife."

The grey eyes watched John as he stood up.

"Speaking about Anders, I should go back to him now," John decided. "Good night," he told his former lover, squeezing his shoulder one last time before making his way out of the tavern without looking back.

 

Lord Mitchell was welcomed outside by a heavy rain. He took the tartan fabric from around his shoulder and put it over his head as an improvised hood. A lightning illuminated the night sky as the brunet jogged under the rain in the castle's direction. As he passed in front of Brastàl's temple, another lightning strike hit the ground not far from there, making it vibrate under the lord's feet. The thunder's rumble was so loud it nearly made the young man drop to his knees. He changed direction to search cover on the temple's threshold. It was wiser to take shelter there and wait for the rain and the thunderstorm to calm down.

John wringed his soaked kilt and entered the building. The circular room was empty. The faithful had probably preferred to stay at home giving the nasty weather. The dancing lights of the candles and the music of the raindrops on the dome ceiling had a strange calming effect on him. He suddenly felt at peace for the first time in what seemed to be forever. He hadn't set foot here since the night before the third trial. Perhaps it was exactly the place where he had to be right now, he pondered, purifying his hands in the fountain.

He had not brought any food with him, but he put a silver coin in the offering bowl of the spirit of unions' altar and kneeled down humbly.

 _"Beloved Riga, you bounded my wrist to the one of a man as beautiful and as cold as the high mountai_ _ns' e_ _ternal snows. Please give to my hands, my arms and my voice the power to melt the snow and resurrect the blooming meadow underneath. Please, guide me_ ," he prayed with all the conviction he could muster. Where were the spirits who had helped him during the trials when he needed them?  

A wind gust coming from the opened door interrupted his prayer.

John sighed when the intruder walked into the candles light.  "Why did you follow me?"

"Because I know you: I know when you're lying," Miller told him, leaning against a column and studying the young lord. "You're not happy and it shows."

John didn't dignify it with an answer. Instead, he kept his eyes on the symbol of Riga. Was it so obvious that he was lovelorn?

"If your marriage was that blissful, you would be in your bed making sweet love to your husband instead of being on your knees in front of the spirit of union's altar," the other man pointed out.  

"You came here just to tell me that?" the lord scoffed, getting back on his feet. He didn't want to be lectured and surely didn’t need to have salt being rubbed in his wounds.

"Is your aklànder worth it at least? In bed I mean," Miller inquired.

John frowned. Was it asked out of jealousy or curiosity?  Both were dangerous, but he still chose to answer with honesty. "How would I know? He still refuses himself to me."

"Really? He obviously doesn't know what he's missing. What are you going to do?"

"I don't know," the lord pondered. "Nothing, most probably… be patient and hope."  What was happening between his husband and him was not his former lover's business, or anybody else’s for that matter, but the brunet felt the need to confide in someone.

"You're not made to live a life without sex," Miller reminded him, "you need warm skin like you need air."  

Mitchell stayed quiet. He couldn't deny the truth of those words. He was a warrior: he had taken lives many times. For every man killed, he had made love to another: to soothe the scars and repay death with pleasure. Sex was his way to forget: his attempt at redemption. He had hoped that with his legitimate husband, it would be something else: not a crutch to be able to go on, but a way to celebrate love and attachment.

"Do you even remember how good it feels to be kissed?" the miller simpered, stepping toward the Great Lord until he was able to put his hands on the nobleman's waist. Yes, John remembered what it was like to kiss someone. He had kissed Anders twice on their wedding day. But did he remember what it was like to be kissed by someone who desired nothing but to unite his lips with his and taste the softness of his tongue? John was weak on that instant: craving for affection like a beggar for food and shelter. He closed his eyes and let it happen like it was fate. He gave in to this familiar mouth that eagerly took his. In his mind, the miller with gray eyes didn't exist anymore: in the darkness behind his shut eyelids, John saw pink plump lips, a fair mane and big blue eyes.

It wasn’t the sound of the thunder, or even the breeze that suddenly rolled in as the temple's door opened that made John jump and part from the man he was kissing. The awful sensation that made all his body tense like he had dived into icy water had been caused by a single word said in a disbelieved tone:

"Mitchell?"

It hadn't been said as a question, like _" is that you?",_ it was more like _"I have to ask because I can't believe that what my eyes_ _see_ _is real."_

But it _was_ real. John had let another man kiss him, and Anders, who had stopped dead in his tracks as he entered the temple, had seen them.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The young lord wouldn't have needed the next lightning strike that illuminated the temple and showed him the small silhouette that was standing there against the light to know it really was his husband.  John was paralyzed and couldn't find anything to say. What was there to say anyway? He just felt his heart sink into his chest as the blond turned on his heels and walked out of the temple and into the rainstorm.

"Wait!" John yelled, suddenly finding his voice again. It was too late. He knew his husband wouldn't wait: why would he?   

"It was your husband, I take it," the other dark-haired man observed, pointing out the obvious.

"Damn! What have I done!?" John despaired, feeling tears of rage itching at the corner of his eyes. He was not angry with Miller. It wasn't his fault. John could have pushed him away, prevent this kiss from happening, and he hadn't.

"He loves you," Miller said in a stern, sad voice.

"What!?"

"He loves you," he repeated, staring pensively at the still opened door by which Anders had left. "I have never seen somebody so angry in my entire life."

"How can you tell? You didn't even see his face."

"I didn't have to."  

 _Is it possible?_ Mitchell asked himself: his heart freezing and warming up in turns. Was it possible that his husband was feeling something for him, but had not been able to show it: out of fear, pride, or because of another secret he was hiding?

"Being the third wheel of a meaningless marriage, I could have handled that. But this!? Nah. I'm not that kind of man," Miller stated, resigned. "He may not know it, but he loves you, and you obviously love him back… and I can't get in-between."

"What should I do!? What can I do!?"  John wailed, restless, torn between the want to run after Anders and the guilt that incited him to find a dark corner to hide.

"I don't know. I recognize love when I see it, but I don't know how to fix it once it's broken," Miller told him. "Good luck and farewell, my lord," he added as John was already running out of the temple to catch his husband in the rainstorm.  

 

***

"Anders !!!" the young lord cried as he barged in his bedroom, but there was nobody there. A few candles were alit and the fire was purring in the hearth like a fat cat. A half-empty cup of herbal tea had been abandoned on the low table and when John put his finger in it, the liquid was still warm, which meant that someone had occupied the room not long before.

He walked to the bed and noticed a folded square of paper placed on the middle of it. His heartbeat speeding up, John unfolded the message and read.

 

_We must talk._

_Since I couldn't find you in the castle and_ _as_ _George doesn't know where you are, I guess you're probably at the temple. I'm going to go and check if you're there. If I'm wrong and you get here before I come back, please wait for me._

_AJM_

 

John sat on the edge of the bed and read again, biting down his quivering lip. Everything in that letter hurt: the fact that Anders had been waiting for him, ready to have a discussion, but that John had failed to be there for his husband. There was also the fact that Anders hadn't thought of the pub as a possible option, like the blond couldn't have imagined that his husband could stoop as low as having a drink after a fight instead of coming back as soon as he could and try to make it right. There was some kind of trust in Anders' words, some kind of hope that they could sort things out: the trust John had betrayed and the hope he had deceived.

The ultimate stab was the "M" at the end of Anders' initials.

"What have I done?" John repeated for the second time during the night, letting the letter fall to the floor and burying his face in his gloved hands.

 

***

 

 

He stayed like that for a moment, he didn't really know how long. Thunder and wind were raging outside and all he could do was wait for his consort to come back.

Loud bangs on the door made the young man jump to his feet.  Hoping that it was his husband coming back, John headed to the door and opened it. Unfortunately it wasn't the blond man he found there, but George and Finn, the castle stables' horse master. Both seemed rather alarmed.

"Sir Anders is gone," the guard told his friend.

"What do you mean!?" John asked, even if the meaning of those words was quite clear.

"His Grace saddled his stallion and when I asked him where he was going, he refused to tell me," Finn related.

"Where is he now!?" Mitchell's sorrow was turning into an aching concern.

"The guards at the front gate told me they opened it for him about thirty minutes ago," George informed him.  

"And they let him out!!!"

"Well… they couldn't disobey the Great Consort," the guard pointed out.

"Yes, that's right," John conceded. Shocked and angry after he had caught him kissing another man, Anders had chosen a radical option. John could understand his husband's impulsive action. It was the kind of thing he would have done himself. He wasn't really good at handling emotional pain either. Despite that fact, John couldn't sit back and do nothing. He had made a mistake; they had both made mistakes, but he couldn't lose Anders.  If his consort had left the castle thirty minutes ago, he still had a chance to find him and convince him to come back.

John closed the door of his bedroom and walked down the corridor, followed closely by the two men. "I'm going to take my horse and go in search of him."

"I don't know if it's wise to ride in such weather, your highness."

"Indeed, Master Finn," John replied," it isn't wise, but I don't care."

 

 

***

Pessa was clearly not happy to go out. She didn't appreciate much the sound of thunder and she let her master know with flattened ears and bared teeth. "I'm sorry, darling," he apologized as he climbed on her back," but if you want to see your stallion again and if I want to get my husband back, you'll have to work with me."

Wind and darkness engulfed the lord and his mare as soon as they passed the gate the guards had opened for them. It was raining cats and dogs and John could barely see where he was going; only the lightning strikes helped a bit. When he realized he already was at the junction between the Mitchells' Road and Carraig's Road, he pulled on the reins and the nervous horse pranced. He hesitated. What direction did his husband take; to the north to Fìrness, to the south to Carraig, to the East to Bailtean or to the west to Eelry? The west was also the direction of Aklànd. John remembered the two times he had found the blond man alone on the top of the donjon tower, looking in that direction. He didn't hesitate any longer and pulled his galloping horse to the west.

 

He rode blindly under the rain, trusting his horse to stay on the road. Water was dripping down his hair, on his face, to his neck and under his already soaked clothes. The rider and his iron gray horse followed the road for an hour or so without finding any trace of the aklànder.

John had to stop when he reached the Eachann river. Whoever desired to continue their trip to the west had to take the ferry boat to cross the river. The boatmen weren't working at night, and moreover, certainly not during a rainstorm, hence, there was no way Anders would have been able to cross. He had either taken the road to the North or got back on his tracks. The blond man could have also taken the road to Somerled temple to take shelter there, but John doubted it. With worry making his mouth dry and his heart thump into his cold chest, he had to acknowledge that no matter how hard he tried, he probably wouldn't be able to find Anders tonight. With a cry of anger, he made Pessa turn around and take the road back to the castle.

He could send messages to the governors of the nearest cities first thing in the morning and ask them to inform him if anybody saw Anders, but make the authorities search for his husband as if he was a criminal would probably not help his cause. Since there was no evidence of physical or psychological abuse in their marriage, neither of them could ask for a divorce. The aklànder could always tell people that the marriage hadn't been consummated and, this way, get the annulment. John would have two seasons to find a new spouse or abdicate his title. Anders could also ask to be allowed to live separately from his husband even if they remained married. Their honor would inevitably be tarnished for the rest of their lives. Mikkel would probably have no choice but disown his brother. John didn't want to believe that it really was what Anders wanted.

 

The thunderstorm had stopped, but not the rain. It was getting colder and colder with every minute and the path his horse was following was more a stream than a road.  John's soaked coat felt like it weighed three tons. _"Why am I under the rain, in the middle of the night, for a man who doesn't even want to be with me; a man whose only purpose is to goad me?"_ he wondered.  Despite the frustration, he couldn't deny that the answer was quite simple to find.

_He loves you._

Miller's words were echoing in an endless loop in his mind. If there was a chance it was true, John had to take it, because he knew deep inside that if he didn't, he would spend the rest of his life with remorse. He never beat a retreat and left the battlefield without fighting. He wouldn't do that for his marriage either. The spirits weren’t known to be cruel. They wouldn't have sent him all those signs that Anders was his One if it wasn't true.

 

Not far from the forest where they had passed their first trial, along the Mitchells' road, there was a little hamlet: a few abandoned farms. The houses were unoccupied for at least two decades now and half of them were nothing but ruins. John pulled on the reins and Pessa stopped. The young lord sniffed the humid air: he could have sworn he had smelled smoke, which was odd since nobody lived there. Maybe his mind was playing tricks on him.

He realized he wasn't hallucinating when his eyes caught the light of a fire through the broken window of one of the houses.

Slowly, he let himself slip off his saddle. He took Pessa by the reins and walked toward the ruins, trying not to make any noise and stay unseen. From the side of the house, a horse nickered, and the grey mare, that couldn't know her master and she were playing a hiding game, replied to the call.

"Damn it," John cursed quietly.

The fire was extinguished in a hurry and he heard some shuffling: someone moving outside the ruins quickly.  John walked around the house. It was useless to stay hidden since whoever was there knew they had been observed. Despite the darkness, the brunet could see someone take off on a very familiar white war-horse.

"Anders !!!" John shouted before his husband could be too far to hear him.

At the call of his name and recognizing the lord's voice, the Great Consort made his horse slow down and trot back to the ruins. John grabbed Ornàn's bridle to prevent Anders from running away before he had heard what he had to say.

"What are you doing here, your highness? Did you misplace one of your belongings?" the aklànder asked, with bitterness his mocking voice didn't hide completely.

"Don't be like that. I just want to talk to you. Can you get down that horse so we can have a proper conversation?"

"Yes I can, but that doesn't mean I will," Anders retorted, stubborn.  

"Please," John insisted, offering an outstretched hand to help him down.

Anders looked at the hand, then at his husband's face and seemed unsure. With a sigh of defeat, he put his cold hand in John's and let himself fall off the stallion.

 

They tied their horses under the roof of a little shed nearby and went back into the house's ruins.

John kneeled in front of the fireplace and tried to resuscitate the fire from the few remaining embers without much success.

Anders handed him a set of flint stones. "I keep them in my saddle just in case," he explained.

"Does that mean you’ve been planning this escape for a while now?" John asked, gathering twinges and dry leaves in a heap. He had to know the truth.

"No. I haven't _planned_ anything. I left on a whim… can't pinpoint exactly why," the blond man scoffed .

Despite his dark mood, he still sat on the ground by John's side and tried to warm his hands in front of the fire the brunet had managed to start.

"And where are you going, if I can ask," John inquired, bracing his legs with his arms to keep his warmth.

"I didn't really figure it out yet," Anders replied. "I couldn't go any further tonight. Ornàn was scared because of the thunder so we stopped here. Go to the Keirs' lands and try to find a house in Pine Port would probably be the best option for me."

He seemed lost in warring thoughts as John observed him in silence for a moment.

Anders surely didn't need him to survive. He was a fighter: a self-made man. The warrior didn't have any illusions about this: he probably needed Anders more than his husband needed him. Any sane person would probably have given up on Anders' case already, and while John was not exactly crazy, there was this voice inside him that kept on telling him that the last page of their story was not meant to be turned yet and that they needed each other more than they could suspect themselves.

It's Anders who broke the silence first, hurt and resentment laced to every syllable. "You have your marriage contract, your title and we both kept the promises made to our fathers by getting married. I filled my part of the deal, and giving what I saw at the temple, you don't need me anymore."

"That is not true," John objected, shaking his head. "That is not true at all. I still need you, Anders."

"You need me to be allowed to adopt children. Because in the end, it's the main thing you want, not to see the Mitchells' name extinct, right? "

"I can't pretend I don't," the lord answered honestly, "but my feelings for you are no less sincere. I need you for much more than just having heirs."

"What for, then?" Anders asked, and he seemed genuinely interested and curious to know the answer.

John inhaled sharply, ready to pour out his feeling for his husband in one single breath. "I want to use the fact I'm taller to shield you from the wind in winter. I want to swim with you in the river during summer. You've seen how awful I am at swimming. I need a good teacher. I want to get to see your amazing hunting skills again at the autumn gathering's hunts," he enumerated. "You have the presence, the charisma and the strategic intelligence of a real Great Consort and I want no other man by my side."  

Anders had listened to him with his head slightly tilted to the side, like an attentive puppy. The tiniest of smiles warmed his face features up. "It's true that you're not very skilled when it comes to avoiding drowning," he remarked.  

 

 

 

 

"I grant you that," John replied, returning the smile. Then, he sighed and became serious again. "We didn't choose to be engaged to one another. How could we? We were so young. But what you see as a curse, I see it as a gift," he continued, toying in the fire with the tip of a branch." The spirits gave me a smart, strong, beautiful husband. Of course, he can be fierce, just like I can be as well. He can be prickly and inaccessible, but who can blame me if I don't want to see him go?"

Imitating his husband, Anders had folded his short legs and put his arms around them. His head was resting against his knees and he was watching John, in deep musings.

The brunet was worried that what he was about to confess would scare his husband away, but he had to reassure him about what he had witnessed at the temple. "You have to trust me when I say that there is nothing between that man and me. If there was something once, it's not the case anymore. I just wanted to remember what it was like to kiss somebody who desired me, but while we were kissing, the only thing I was thinking about was you and how I wished it was your lips on mine."

John had expected a wide range of possible reactions, but certainly not that one. Even in the dim light of the fire, it was unmistakable guilt that made the blond man suddenly avoid his gaze and look away. " _I wish I knew what is going on in that sweet head of yours,"_ John thought.

"No other man can take your place. I'm married to you now, and I love you, Anders, " he said softly, and the blue eyes came back to lock with his once more. "I'm not saying it lightly or to clear my conscience.  I can renounce sex and you don't even have to love me back … but I can't renounce you. Please… don't deprive me of my husband."

"I don't know. I don't know what to say," Anders sighed, as if speaking to himself. He looked so lost John only wanted to hold him close and tight.

"We had a rough start," John conceded. "Despite that, I believe we can start afresh. Teach me how to love you right. Can you give me another chance?"

Since Anders seemed to hesitate again, the brunet went on. "I wish you to stay. I want to prove you that the horrible things you accused me of this morning don't reflect my intentions toward you. I want to show you that I'm not using you, that you're neither my prisoner… nor my belonging."

"How?"  

"Look, Anders," the lord began. It cost him to say what he was about to say, but he had to trust his instincts; he had to trust the spirits who had decided they were meant to be together, but, above all, he had to trust Anders. "Let's make a deal, shall we? Your birthweek is one moon from now. If by the end of the week of Braìg you still want to leave, I will even help you and give you money so you can buy a house in Pine Port and settle down. But until then, you may stay in Brastàl with me: share my bed, share my meals and help me rule this country. Even if our bed sharing is to remain chaste, I promise not to leave it at night anymore. You're precious to me; not for what you bring me as status, title or alliance, but for your company, your humor, your strength, your wit and your beauty."

"One moon?"

"That you stay with me for one more moon before deciding if you want us to live separately… it's all I'm asking for."

 

Anders stood up and paced in the room, evaluating the proposition. "Agreed," he finally nodded when his decision was taken.

John stepped to his feet as well and walked to the gaping hole in the stoned wall they had used as a door. He looked outside and realized that the rain had stopped. "There is a warm bed waiting for us in the castle. Will you come back home with me, _a ghraìd_? " he asked the older man, turning around to look at him. The young lord had spoken the two Gaelic words in a soft voice, even if he felt like the blood in his vessels was boiling over with anticipation. Saying those words to his husband was a big deal: it would be for anybody. One must never call someone else their "dearest love" if they didn't truly mean it.

The blond man stayed speechless for a moment, standing at the fireside and looking at Mitchell as if he almost expected him to give a justification for the using of such an intimate endearment. But John didn't, because there was no explanation to give.

"Yes, warmth and bed… both sound good," Anders finally said.

 

***

When the Great Lord and his consort got to the third floor, they noted that all the servants and half of the rest of the castle's staff were gathered in the corridor, in front of their bedroom door. The rumor of Anders' escape had spread quickly. Part from curiosity and part from genuine concern for their masters' wellbeing, they had come to the lord's apartments to wait for their ruler's return, with or without his husband.

John told them to go back to sleep with a fatherly smile and escorted Anders inside the bedroom, his arm around his waist to put the servants' fear or any hint of gossip to rest. He knew it would be in vain. The noblemen looked weary; their clothes were dirty, water dripping, and the servants were not idiots.

As the gentleman he was, the brunet let his spouse get changed first behind the folding screen. Once Anders was done, he too shed his wet clothes, put on a warm night shirt and undid his plait to leave his hair to dry, falling free on his shoulders. When John stepped out from behind the screen, he noticed that the aklànder was standing in front of one of the windows, wrapped in a wool blanket and scrutinizing the depths of the dark night outside to the west.

"You know, this morning, when we were yelling at each other like jerks…" Anders began, still looking out the window as John was hanging his kilt in front of the fireplace.  

"Yes? What about it?" the brunet encouraged him. If his husband finally decidedto speak, he had to grasp the opportunity and not let it go. "I'm listening to you," he added, sitting on the bed.  

"You said that you endured a lot of things for me during the trials," the older man reminded him. He hadn't said it with bitterness or anger; he was just stating the facts. "But you don't know what I endured for years. My own trials began way before I arrived in Brastàl."

"What do you mean?" John asked with a frown, even if his husband couldn't see it.   

"When my father disappeared, my stepmother took over my education. She isn't exactly a gentle woman and she was seeing as a burden the fact she was now responsible for four boys. But since the clan's reputation was at stake, she took care of my grooming in a zealous manner, to say the least. She always thought my father should have chosen Ty to marry you - that he would have made a better Great Consort than I could ever be. Now I see she wasn't entirely wrong," he narrated with a wince in his tone. "Since the deed was done and it was my wrist that was to be given to you, she felt like she had to make someone decent of me. From the age of fifteen, she made me follow regimes and physical training among other things, so I stayed fit and slim, intelligent and well-mannered, cultivated and skilled. The letters you sent me: she always read them first when they arrived, trying to figure out how she had to shape me to make me pleasing for you. All my life had you as a purpose. I was supposed to change who I was to fit your expectations. I was constantly asked to work harder to be worthy of you, but I'm pretty sure nobody ever asked you to do the same to be worthy of me."

The lord shook his head in silence, indignant and sad. He could now see why Anders had kept so much resentment toward him, even if John was not directly responsible. It also explained why Anders never replied to his letters. Any teenager treated this way would have probably reacted the same way: by rebelling against the mere idea of that marriage. A lot of things the warrior had overlooked suddenly made sense. He remembered his husband stuffing his face with plums and other food at the tournament – this was the attitude of a man who had been deprived of eating what he wanted for a long time. It was the same thing with alcohol, something Anders seemed to appreciate a lot.  His step-mother probably didn't allow him to drink. _"I haven't been groomed to be a warrior, but to be the Great Lord's bed warmer";_ the blond man had told him the first time they got to talk on the donjon's rooftop. These words held more meaning than John had first thought. His husband could be rude, blunt, frustrating, but the brunet couldn't help but feel compassion for his spouse. He didn't even want to imagine how it could be like to be persistently told that your life meant nothing of itself but was only worth something in regard to who you were meant to marry.

 

Leaving the bed, Mitchell walked to his husband and, as he stood behind him, put a friendly hand on his shoulder. "I wish someone told me about it. I would have put an end to that madness."

"You couldn't know," Anders shook his head. "Mikkel took me out of Lady Elizabet's claws when I was twenty-five. My only consolation is to know that Ty escaped it, because I doubt she would have spared even her own child."

"I'm so sorry."

"Don't be. It doesn't change anything anyway. The past is the past," Anders stated, before doing something unpredictable. He leant back just slightly against John's solid chest.  "I'm tired," the blond murmured.  John suspected his husband wasn't just speaking about his current physical state, and taking it as an invitation; he put his arms around the smaller man.

 

"I always felt like that," Anders confided after a moment of silence.

"Like what?"

"Like someone standing in a room and looking out the window," he specified. "I always longed for a life on the other side, without knowing what exactly this life is. I never felt at home anywhere. No matter what I do, say, or even think, I'm always a stranger wherever I go. I have to make twice the effort another Northhiller would have to make to get anything. The first reaction people usually have toward me is distrust or hostility: I have to be really convincing to have any credibility."

The lord only emitted a soothing hum to let his husband know he was listening and he tightened his embrace around him, hoping it was somehow comforting. Even if he hated to hear those things, John was relieved that his husband finally decided to speak to him: being able to understand him better felt like a blessing. Every time he had seen Anders stand alone and look at the horizon where the sun set, he had assumed he was missing Aklànd. Apparently, he was wrong.  His husband was longing for a place where he wouldn't have to justify his own existence all the time: a place where he wouldn't get funny looks or insults wherever he went. This place maybe existed, far to the west, on the other side of the sea: where Anders' mother came from and people had pale hair and blue eyes.

"Despite my brothers' attempts to make me feel like one of them, they couldn't do anything about how the other people considered me," the blond man added.

"You never felt like you were a Johnson?"

"I was feeling like  I was a Johnson, because it's the only thing I could ever hold on to."

"I took that away from you," John understood.

"Yes."

"And now you make me pay for it," was the brunet's ascertainment.  

"Life made me what I am," Anders replied, not trying to deny it. "I'm a rabid dog. I bite before being bitten. I bite everything that comes close. I don't make the difference between a hand that hits and a hand that feeds. The hand that feeds and pets can hit a second later, so I bite both to be on the safe side."  

"Anders," John sighed in blond hair. "You're not a stray dog. Not to me. You're a splendid red fox, hunted for too long because of its exceptional fur. I'm not the hand that hurts, neither am I the hand that feeds. Can't you see that I'm a fox, just like you? I'm a black, common one, but I want to become your companion, your mate, and I want you to be my male."

"Aren't you afraid of losing your time?" Anders inquired. "I've been wild for so long now. You may never be able to tame me."

"I'm willing to try."  

His husband was still in his arms and hadn't tried to push him away yet, so despite the fact he had only one moon to win Anders over, he felt pretty confident about his chances.

"I don't know if I should admire your tenacity or pity your foolishness," the blond pondered.

"I prefer admiration to pity, to be honest."

"Admiration it is, then," Anders decided.

 

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to the poeple who take the time to leave their thoughts. You feed my little mind with a lot of interesting reflexions. XxX
> 
> just a friendly reminder that it exists a playlist for that story here : http://8tracks.com/oursesolitaire/autumn-in-the-north-hills/
> 
> and that there is a Russian version of the story here for russian speakers: http://ficbook.net/readfic/2681807


	12. Quicksand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders accepted to stay one more moon in Brastàl before deciding if he wants to live separately from his husband. Days pass quickly and John is running out of time...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hugs, love and thanks to the poeple who are dedicated enough to embark my crazy boat and give their time and energy to translate and illustrated this story. :) <3 Katyushha and DRAGON4488.
> 
> you can find the translation in russian here : https://ficbook.net/readfic/2681807/8506311#part_content

Ornàn's hooves were hammering the clay in a steady rhythm, the stallion's mobile ears turning to listen to his master's commands.

Leaning against the fence, John was watching his husband train his horse. Two days had passed since the thunderstorm during which he had come close to losing his spouse, and the brunet was still trying to figure out how he would convince Anders to stay for good.

 _"Is it possible to tame a husband like one tames a horse_?" he pondered, his gaze following the strong animal galloping around the blond man at the end of a long lunge line.

Making sure first that Anders was too far to hear, John turned his head to the side and repeated his question out loud. Pessa, who was standing by his side, gave his ribcage a nudge with the side of her nose. "Was that a yes?" he asked her with a grin, only to receive another soft push. He scratched the mare between the ears, suspecting that her reply meant _"I want one of those carrots I know you're hiding in your pocket."_ She obviously didn't have much interest in his love life and he couldn't really blame her for that. Mitchell plunged a hand inside his coat, took half of a carrot out of it and held it out on the flat of his hand. The mare hastened to swallow the treat.

Six years before, when he had brought his newly captured foal back to Brastàl, she was so wild he had thought he would never be able to even touch her. Get her to trust him had taken a great deal of patience. He had placed Pessa into a large paddock, came to see her every day and fed her himself. At first, Pessa didn't even want to eat as long as John was in her field of sight. She was waiting for him to be gone to approach the food and sniff it suspiciously. After a few weeks, she got used to seeing him and only waited for him to be out of the paddock to take a mouthful of hay. Then, John started bringing carrots with him. The first time, he put the carrot to the ground and took exactly fifty steps back. He stood still: quiet and waiting. Circumspect, the mare had eyed him for a long time before daring approach and eat the carrot. The next day, he repeated the same strategy, taking forty-nine steps back this time, and so on. This way he got closer to her a little more each time. Finally, one day, he had been able to crouch and pet her while she was eating.

"We're done, the space is yours," Anders told John, pulling him out of his musings. The blond man flashed him a friendly smile, his cheeks all rosy from the cold wind, as he led Ornàn out of the horse school.

This idea wasn't that stupid, actually, John pondered as he watched his husband walk away. Maybe it was exactly what he had to do to tame his wild fox of a husband.

That night, John observed that he always slept about twice the width of his palm from the edge of the bed. That was a good starting point. From now on, every night, he would lie down and sleep the width of three of his fingers closer to Anders. This way, little by little, he would get closer each day and the Aklànder would get used to his presence, and hopefully, before the end of the moon, John would be able to sleep with Anders in his arms without scaring him. The thought of having his husband in his arms reminded him that the blond man wasn't that far away and was currently naked under his night shirt. In truth, John would only have to move to the side a little and stretch an arm under the covers to touch his skin. But it was too soon and too dangerous. He closed his eyes and forced himself to think about something else.

***

Another important part of John's plan was to involve Anders in the ruling of Brastàl. It was something he had neglected so far and knew it was a mistake. If John had to leave for a while, his consort would have to be able to replace him. He also wanted the blond man to feel important, independent and useful.

The next day, the lord woke his husband up early and brought a still half-asleep Anders to the daily training of Brastàl's soldiers at the archery field, but instead of the usual training, John asked his spouse to show the recruits how to throw a javelin. The Great Consort spent ten minutes whining to his unfeeling husband, and the next three hours helping the young soldiers improve their feet position and find the right flexion and angle of their arm to be able to make efficient throws. John figured out that he didn't have to hide how proud he was of his spouse. When they walked back to the castle, Anders was not whining anymore. Instead, he was enumerating to his husband the names of the recruits he thought had potential with that weapon.

John slept closer to his spouse that night, and, as he expected and wanted, Anders didn't seem to notice.

Later that week, the couple went to the market to discuss tax raises, weights and measures, and the state of goods trade in the Mitchell's lands with the merchants from Eelry, Bailtean, Somerled and Longdale. "The cities' governors will always tell us what we want to hear," John explained to his consort, "if you want to know the truth, you have to ask the merchants directly: they know their business and there is no better source." Anders listened and nodded like someone who was taking mental notes.

On the last day of the spirit of knowledge's week, John put a kiss inside Anders' tattooed wrist after the blond man had got in his horse's saddle. "Are you sure you can't come with me?" the older man asked him, shooting him a slightly panicked glance. "I have duties here, but I know you'll do brilliantly without me, my love," John reassured him, knowing his husband was nervous about having to preside at an official event alone for the first time.

Before going back to the council hall for his meeting with the druids and druidesses of his lands' temples, the brunet climbed on the city walls to watch Anders and the soldiers he had asked to protect his husband leave for Somerled where his consort had to attend the inauguration of a new orphanage. " _He'll be back before nightfall_ ," the Great Lord told himself, just to feel the sudden emptiness a little less. All day long, John had a hard time concentrating on the meeting, peeking outside the window now and then to watch the course of the sun anxiously. He kept on repeating himself that it was good for both of them: that he had to work on Anders' empowerment in his role as a consort. When Anders came back just before sunset, John hugged him until the blond man patted his shoulder and asked him if he planned on letting him go before he died from starvation. According to the report Anders made of his day in Somerled, the inauguration had gone well, except for the slight confusion created by the orphans' collective fascination by his hair color.

They went to bed that night and once again, John subtly counted the length he had to leave between his spouse and himself to stick to his taming plan. As they were settling under the warm pelts, Anders rolled onto his flank to look at his husband. "It's great to be back," he simply told him with a tiny, spent smile: his eyelids already half-closed.

Even before John could whisper "I'm glad you're back", Anders was already asleep.

***

Mitchell wished he could spend more time with his other half but the timing was awful. The last weeks before the cold season were always the busiest ones of the year. As the days passed, John got less and less occasions to involve Anders in the ruling of the country and the city. If the oracles of Lìnden were right and the winter was to be an especially cold one, the Quigley river risked to get frozen and hence, it would slow down the communications between the clans for several weeks. The Lord of Bràstal had a lot of urgent cases to get sorted before the ice and snow made it more difficult. Also, a gang of poachers who were squatting in their miserable barracks at the edge of the forest had started attacking people traveling on the road to Somerled Temple. They hadn't killed anybody yet and they were mostly robbing money and clothes, but people who had ended up naked and penniless on the side of the road had every right to complain and expect Lord Mitchell to act about it. Brastàl citizens didn't really give a damn that their Lord was newlywed and would rather stay with his gorgeous man all day long instead of running after thieves. John knew he had responsibilities toward his people, no matter how desperately in love he was at the moment. George and he had planned an operation and fortunately succeeded in arresting the majority of the gang's members.

John was reluctant to involve his husband in the military matters. He was doing his best to show he trusted Anders and to give him responsibilities, but put him in situations that could be dangerous for his life was a boundary he wasn't ready to cross.

Now, he was even worried of letting Anders leave the castle without an escort. Several incidents had made John more and more concerned for his beloved's safety. First there was the burnt boat. The lord had thought it would be an isolated event, but he was wrong. North of the ramparts, further out of the city, there was a wood bridge above a stream. One morning, the merchants taking the road from Bràstal to Somerled found it destroyed. John had been called there. He soon discovered that the criminals had left near the ruins of the bridge a half-burnt scarecrow with straw hair and a sign round its neck. The words had sent shivers down John’s spine: _"Cast the witcher out."_

He had expressly enjoined his men not to say anything about it to his consort.

This event plunged John in a state of constant anxiety. He remembered Anders’ words : _" I'm not some piece of jewellery you can put back in its case when you're tired looking at it."_ And of course, Mitchell would never treat him like that on purpose. But how could he make Anders understand he only wanted to keep him safe while not telling him why?

The night after the scarecrow mishap, he stayed awake for a long time. The room was warm and they had not closed the heavy curtains around the bed, so he could look at his husband’s face as he slept, the flickering light of the fire reflecting on his beautiful features and his pale eyelashes fluttering slightly as he dreamed. John pondered that he would probably prefer to have his throat sliced open than see his love harmed. But now, chances were that Anders would feel like a prisoner more than ever. Also, the older man would probably start to suspect that John was hiding something from him. The situation had all the right ingredients reunited to make Anders want to leave as soon as possible.

Another thing making John worried was the fact that his husband was getting bored. Most of the time, Anders didn't even want to get out of the bed in the morning, and when John was coming back to the bedroom at noon, the blond was often still in bed. When he bothered leaving his place under the covers, he rarely left the bedroom at all. With all the work he had to do and the dangers outside: John couldn't keep his husband busy all the time. He was still trying his best to suggest things to do to distract him.

"Why don't you walk Ornàn in the courtyard and take care of him for a bit?" he suggested, one afternoon when he came back to his bedroom  to see how Anders was doing and found him sprawled on the couch and counting the stones of the ceiling.

"Already did this morning. I brushed his coat for about an hour, it's so shiny now you could see your reflection on his arse," Anders retorted, moody.

"Well, you could start learning knitting or embroidering. I'm sure my mother would love to teach you," he teased the blond in a last attempt to cheer him up.

Anders flipped him the bird and stuck his tongue out at him, for which John felt twice as chastised.

The blond man had a hard time sleeping too. Several days a week, Mitchell was waking up only to see Anders' dark shadow standing in front of the window, looking to the West. John knew his love was missing his brothers and Aklànd: something the older man would never admit out loud. His husband was an independent man and it grieved John to see him in that state. It was unlike Anders to be so lamblike and lifeless. The brunet was partly responsible for it, but at the same time, he couldn't help but think that there was something else than the confinement getting on Anders: some regret was eating him from inside.

*******

One day that they had barely the occasion to talk since John had one million things to get done; the brunet was making his way to the library when he bumped into his husband who was just coming out of the armory. Anders mumbled an apology and hastened to walk way in the opposite direction.

Frowning, John entered the library, wondering what his husband had been doing in the armory. Maybe his consort had heard about the threats against him somehow, and was searching for a weapon to defend himself. The whole point of not telling Anders about the scarecrow was that he didn't want his spouse to live in fear. As long as he stayed inside the castle walls, he was safe. Maybe the blond man was planning his escape to Pine Port at the end of the moon and needed something that was in the armory. John chased this last hypothesis out of his mind. If he started thinking this way, he would resign himself to the imminent loss instead of trying to find ways to seduce his consort.

The young man removed his heavy golden torc, put it on the main reading desk and, massaging his neck, he started searching on the shelves for the book he wanted to study.

He came back to the desk a few minutes later with _The Methodical Treaty of Military Geography_  by Ranald Lister-Ferguson, the 5 th Great Lord of the North Hills' Federation. He flipped the first pages in search of a map of the Plains’ coasts, wondering what John Douglas-Mitchell, the 11th Great Lord of the Federation, would leave to the posterity. Not much probably, since he wasn't even able to conquer his husband's heart.

He forced his mind to concentrate on his search instead of entertaining depressing thoughts. John always wondered if it would be possible to counteract a nomad invasion by putting the troops on boats and landing on the coasts south of Lìnden. Maybe those maps held the answer.   

 

 

 

The window of the library was overlooking the castle's garden and was currently open. As a fresh breeze rolled in, he heard faint voices coming from outside. Two people were having an animated conversation while walking on the gravel path. He didn't pay attention to it until the voices came closer. He lifted his head from the book and pricked up his ears. He didn't have much trouble recognizing them: the masculine voice was his husband's and the feminine one was Annie's.

There was a stone bench just under the window. The maid and the Great Consort stopped and sat there to talk, oblivious to the fact John was in the library.

"He always looks angry, borderline judgemental," he heard Anders say.

"That's the eyebrows," Annie reassured the blond man.

John realized they were talking about him. Listening to private conversations was not very polite, but the young man still stood up, walked to the window and leaned against the wall.  

"His resting face looks like that," the maid added. "It just means he's listening to you attentively. Don't let it trouble you. He's as soft as a lamb."

"The state of his banner-pole says otherwise. I saw it," Anders objected.

At once, John understood what his husband was doing in the armory earlier. It was an ancient tradition that every heir and lord of the Mitchell clan engraved their name on the wooden pole that was holding the banner that the warriors of the clan carried to the battlefield. For every enemy killed, the warriors were making a notch on the pole with a knife under their name.

"He wouldn't have wanted you to see it…" John heard Annie say.

The young woman was right. John didn't want his spouse to see that: to see him like he was a sanguinary beast, but at the same time, he couldn't really hide the truth from him: he was a professional murderer and nothing he could say would change that fact.

"Well, I did see it anyway," Anders replied. "But I didn't need that to know he had killed several men with his own hands and let's not talk about all the soldiers he sent to their death."

Apparently, it really was the way his husband saw him: like a carnage-thirsty animal. John sighed and rested his head to the wall, not sure if he wanted to hear the rest of the conversation. What you don't know can't hurt you, they say.

"You have wedded a warlord, not a carpenter," the handmaiden reminded Anders, "what else did you expect?"

There was a silence in the garden before Annie spoke again. "I know it's hard to accept, but the only reason why we are safe here in Brastàl is because John had indeed killed enemies and sacrificed soldiers. He doesn't take pride from it, trust me. He is just doing his duty. I'm sure that if he had a choice, he would prefer to lead a peaceful life with you and never have to make anybody die."

"How can I know that what you're saying is true?"

"Indeed. You don't have any way to know since you never give him a single chance to show you how much he actually cares for you," Annie scolded the blond man, the first flames of anger in her voice. "It's obvious in the way he looks at you, speaks to you, touches you and acts around you. I've known John since childhood. I know he's not perfect, but you'll never find a more dedicated and loyal husband. He loves you and wants you to be happy. He would never hurt you. Even if you reject his love: he's just going to endure and suffer in silence. I don't want to see my best friend's heart being broken because a callous man like you was too self-obsessed and dared snubbing his nose on him."

"Ouch, that was harsh," Anders winced.

"Yes. And I'm not over," the maid went on with the same passion. "As far as I know: until now, you let him do the whole job in making your marriage work, only to dismiss all his attempts at courting you. He may be the Lord and you his consort, he deserves to be wooed as much as you do. I think it's time you pull your head out of your arse and do something about it."

"It's the first time a servant dares speak to me that way," the Great Consort remarked, astonished.

"Find a way to heal my Johnny's heart or get used to me speaking to you that way," she declared. "Now, if you may excuse me, Your Grace, I have chores."

John heard his female friends' steps stomping away. Anders was left there with his husband, but the two of them separated by a stone wall, both in deep, painful thoughts.

The brunet walked back to the desk and closed the geography book. There was no way he would be able to concentrate on his reading now. On a table nearby, someone had left a copy of the _Hill's Botanical Encyclopedia_. The cover art of the book: an illumination representing a plant, a mortal and a pestle, suddenly gave him an idea. He grabbed his torc and left the library.  

 

***

 

A sudden draft in the narrow street made the dust fly around in a twirl and John had to protect his eyes. For a second, he even had a hard time spotting the wooden sign, swinging in the wind at the end of its chains. He heaved a little sigh of relief and dusted his coat before pulling open the front door of " _Arthus Sileàs – Healer since the 9_ _th_ _Great Lord_ ".

Epona Sileàs was standing behind the apothecary shop's counter; busy tying bunches of chamomile and hanging them to dry to the low ceiling. "Good day, your highness," the busty woman greeted him. "What can I do for you?"

"Good morning, Mistress Epona. Is your great-grandfather there?" John inquired.

"He's with a client at the moment. You can sit in the waiting room," she replied, pointing through an opened door.

John thanked her and took a seat.

A few minutes later, the door of the old master Sìleas' office opened slightly. Three magpies fled out through the opening and into the waiting room. The birds protested against the fact they had been driven out of the office in a stream of querulous calls.  The door closed again and the brunet was left alone with the three magpies that had taken refuge on a high shelf to eye him with wariness. The healer's choice of pet had always been a bit of a mystery to John. _"A couple of magpie_ _s e_ _ntered by the window one day and they never left, so I let them live here and hatch eggs,"_ the old man had told him one day. _"They are clever birds: they help me find the things I misplace sometimes."_

One of the tamed magpies left the shelf and flew across the room to lend on John's knee. The young man didn't dare chasing it. The bird went up his thigh in little leaps and started to peck at one of his brass buttons. This went on for long minutes, until John took his dagger from his sheath with a sigh. He magpie jumped to the ground with an outcry. The brunet cut the button off his green waistcoat and held a hand out for the magpie. The bird took the button and flew back to the shelf, its new treasure in the beak.

 

Half an hour later, the client left and John was called into the healer's office.

"How is Sir Anders' rib injury?"  Sìleas enquired as the lord sat on a high stool near the shelves filled with bottles of every size containing herbs, powders and syrups of all sorts.

"Fine, thanks," Mitchell replied. "It healed well. He's not wearing the bandage anymore and never complains about any pain."  

"Good."

"I'm not here for him, though" John specified.

"No?" the old healer asked, like he didn't believe him entirely.

"Well… yes and no… " the brunet admitted.

"I'm listening."

The young man coughed to hide his unease. "I'd like something that could… help me…. be with Anders… as real husbands."

"You need something to help you maintain an erection? You're a bit young to need that kind of medicament, John," Master Sileàs retorted. "Don't drink alcohol for a few days, take good rest and do exercises and it will all come back, I promise."

"No! It's not my sexual performance I want to enhance," John hastened to correct his former schoolmaster, his face red from embarrassment. "I'd like something I could give to Anders to help him…fall for me…"

The black, bushy eyebrows frowned. "Is it a love potion you're asking from me?"

"That's what I need; if such thing exists."

"I know indeed a few plants that could help lower inhibitions and open the heart," the healer pondered out loud.

Hope lightened up in the lord's eyes, only to be extinguished right away. "But I won't give such potion to you," the old man added.  

"Why?"

"Because if I do and you mix it with Anders' drink without his knowledge: whether it works or not, when he gets more intimate with you, you'll feel like you're betraying him and yourself. From that point on, every time he'll come to you to get your affection, you'll be plagued by the doubt that he will be doing it because of the potion and not because he is genuinely attracted to you. You'll come back here and cry on my shoulder. So, giving you a love potion is probably the last thing I should do If I want to help you."

Sìleas moved a few bottles on the shelves until he found what he was searching for. "Instead, I'm going to give you this," he stated, putting a small jar in John's hands.  

"Sand…," the young man noticed, bemused, as he inspected the content of the jar.  

"Yes, that's sand," the healer confirmed, "it's to put in your hourglass, because time is the only thing that will be able to bring you and Anders together."

"But time is something I don't really have anymore," John complained.

"A few days can be years if you make them count."

The lord sighed as he stood up. These were words of wisdom, but he still felt so lost.

He thanked the healer, reached for his purse that was usually hanging on his belt and realized it wasn't there. "I'm sorry, I forgot my purse at the castle," he apologized, "I'll send a servant to pay you."

"No need," Sìleas assured him. "Did you give something to the magpies?"

"Er… hm… yes: a button."

"Perfect. You don't owe me anything then."

The old man walked the Great Lord to the front door and before John left, he told him a secret: "Not long after his marriage, James came here and asked me for a love potion as well."

"Really?" John exclaimed. His father had never told him anything about that. "And what did you give him?" he asked.

"A jar of sand," the healer winked, patting his shoulder.  

On his way home, his jar tucked under his arm, the Great Lord stopped by a bakery to buy sweets for his other half. He had to have an excuse ready to give to his beloved to explain why he had left the castle. He promised the bakers they would get paid in double during the day and he went back to the castle carrying a bag of candied almonds (the local speciality) and another one of apple fritters. After all the nutritional restrictions Anders' step-mother had submitted him to, John was more than happy to indulge his husband's sweet tooth.

Anders seemed quite content with his spouse's initiative when he discovered the content of the bags.

"You lost a button," Anders noticed around his mouthful of apple fritters, pointing at John's waistcoat.

***

 

For two days, John carried the sand jar with him nearly everywhere he went, as if it was more than just sand in a pot but a kind of magic token that could hold an answer somehow.

Sìleas was right. Giving a love potion to Anders was not a good plan. But now he didn't have any other. He didn't know if his idea of sleeping a bit closer to Anders every night would pay off at some point. He had hoped that the healer could just give him something that could ease the helplessness and the feeling of failure he was experiencing. All he had to hold on to was that stupid jar. He finally put it on a crowded table in his bedroom and forgot about it, because otherwise, he would have probably ended up throwing it to the ground in frustration.

The time span separating them from the moment Anders would have to make a decision was getting scarily shorter. The week of the spirit of dreams had already begun, which meant there was less than seven days left before Anders' birthweek.

Instead of putting all his faith in a pot of sand, John decided to put it in his husband. At first, he had thought Anders would grow even colder to him after Annie's scolding, and he had feared it would make the blond man feeling even less welcomed in Bràstal castle. Instead, the Aklànder's behavior had changed slightly, and surprisingly not for the worse. Little things: little gestures and attentions were making John think that his husband wanted to be nicer to him. Anders was used to washing in the evenings and the lord in the mornings. Anders had now taken the habit of making sure the kettle was full and on the hook in the fireplace before going to bed, so John would have hot water when he woke up in the morning. One night that John had to work late in the council hall, he had seen a servant he hadn't called for, arrive with a platter of tea and cake for him. Only yesterday, he had asked to see Master Finn to ask him to take his mare out since he would not be able to do so with all the work he had to get done. "There is no need, my lord," the horse master had replied, "His Grace already took care of it. He groomed and trained her along with his own horse today."

On the third day of the week of Réèv, the brunet decided that no matter what urgent military or political tasks he had to accomplish and no matter the number of people who had asked for an audience, he would spend the entire day with his consort. In the morning, John brought his husband with him to the river docks. The workers were busy building them a new boat to replace the one that had been destroyed and the Great Lord wished to see how the construction was going. Anders knew about the sunken boat, but the brunet had made sure to leave the details of the story rather vague.

In the shipyard, the workers were still busy cutting logs into planks and had not started assembling the hull and the keel yet.

John gathered his long hair in a high bun and rolled up his sleeves to help them. Anders did the same: following his husband's example without a fuss. They worked hard all day long and the aklànder didn't complain a single time. The blond seemed to be in quite a playful mood: making a point of distracting John by saying random numbers as the Great Lord was trying his best to count the number of planks needed for the hull. Every time the brunet was turning a stern look to his husband: Anders was giggling and John could only join him in laughter.

At the end of the day, they shared some wine with the shipwrights, watching the sun set on the river, seated on a row boat put upside down on the beach. The builders, who had seemed a bit guarded with the Great Consort at first, were now joking and laughing with him. John felt warm inside and was wrapping his husband in a loving gaze. He hoped he would be able to see his husband like that every day: beautiful and happy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Anders' eyes met his spouse's brown ones, the last crumbles of a laugh at the corner of his mouth. When he saw he was watched, Anders fell quiet and escaped John's gaze by looking into his cup, a soft smile still floating on his lips. John stood up and took the empty wine cup from his consort's hands. "We should go home, it's late," he told him gently.

They bid a good evening to the builders and got back to their horses.

"Did you think of a name for the boat?" the blond man questioned John as they rode uphill on the dusty path. "It would be bad luck not to name her."

"I know. I think I already found her one," the brunet told him. The Mitchells’ former boat was named the "Great Lady Erin" in honor of John's grandmother. He could have kept the same name but he preferred to start afresh and find a new one.

"What is it?" Anders asked.

"The Lady Astreed," John stated, turning his head to gauge his husband's reaction.

Anders' eyes widened for a split second; probably convinced that the lord was joking. The surprised expression turned into a touched and slightly sad one. "Like my mother," he breathed.

"Yes," John smiled.

The Aklànder frowned. "Aren't you afraid it would curse the boat, giving what happened to my mother…and people's opinion about her?"

"I don't care what people think, and besides, I owe that lady a lot: she was a courageous woman who fought against death long enough to give birth to the man who would become my husband."

Anders gulped. "I… hm… er….," he stuttered. He regained his composure enough to clear his throat and say: "Yes. I think it's a good name."

 

***

 

"Let's get rid of those dusty clothes. Tonight we're dining in the Great Hall," John informed his husband as they stepped in the castle after having put their horses to the stables.

The brunet got changed first and went downstairs to make sure that their table was ready next to the big fireplace and that the musicians he had hired for the occasion were already there.

He had enough time to make sure everything was perfect before his consort arrived. Anders appeared in the great hall, wearing the new dark blue coat and the vest with golden patterns the tailor had delivered the evening before. He looked handsome and regal. John met him halfway across the room and he complimented the blond man before taking his hand to lead him to the table.

"You hired musicians for our supper…what are we celebrating? Did I miss something?" Anders asked, perplexed, as he took place in his chair in front of his bowl of parsley broth.

"It's your birthweek in four days, my dear," John reminded him innocently, putting a handful of roasted chestnuts onto his plate.

Anders raised an eyebrow for only reply.

The lord knew the bogus pretext he just made up wasn't really credible. The celebrations of someone's birthweek never took place before said week actually began, and the family generally only marked the occasion by giving presents on the last day.

The fiddle and harp started to play, the echo of the music filling the whole space.  The blond man ate a few spoonfuls of his soup before he leant forward above the table to catch his husband's attention. "With only us and the musicians in here: won't it be a bit distracting if we want to talk?" he observed.

John was about to put a chestnut into his mouth, but he put it back onto his plate right away, startled. "You… wish us…to talk?" he asked, unsure.

"That's the whole point of having a supper together, isn't it?" Anders pointed out.

Never, in his whole life, had John Mitchell driven musicians away so quickly.  He still paid them handsomely and offered them to spend the rest of the night in the kitchen where they could get drinks and food for free.

John sat back at the table with his consort in the now silent hall. At first, the conversation was slightly awkward, hesitant, halting like an old gearing that hadn't been used for a long time. But soon, the gearing got rid of its rust and was turning good and easy. John had never visited the Johnsons' lands. He was engaged to Anders since childhood and when this kind of alliance occurred in noble clans, the families generally made sure the future spouses had very few contacts with each other. They believed that if the fiancés got to know each other too much before the trials, it could influence the results in a bad way. The young lord was curious about Anders' homeland. The blond man gladly answered his questions about the metropolis of the Johnsons’ lands: a big, populous port city where boredom wasn't something its inhabitants knew. There were street shows everywhere every night: dance, theater and music in every passage and alleyway. The Johnsons’ lands were also renowned for their orchards. According to Anders, in Aklànd, the cider tasted good and the women as well.

John understood that despite the treatment his stepmother had made him endure: Anders had loved that city and its lifestyle. Lord Mitchell could perfectly picture his husband sneaking out of the castle at night with his brother Ty to enjoy the adventures Aklànd had to offer to two young, handsome heirs. In comparison, Brastàl probably seemed to Anders to be a dull town, imprisoned between the hills and filled with old powdery bureaucrats, scribbling on papers for the Great Lords and waiting for death to finally claim them and put an end to their gray lives. But Anders was too polite to express his dislike for Brastàl. Instead, he only praised Aklànd to a dreamy John who had seen rivers, marshes and lochs but had never laid his eyes on the ocean waves.

Something his husband said during the conversation lighted a spark of hope in the brunet's heart. "One day we'll travel there and I'll show you around," Anders had said casually between two bites of his slice of rye bread.

Later in the evening, when the supper was over and the table removed: Lady Mitchell, her lady-in-waiting, Annie and a few other handmaidens joined the couple in front of the fireplace. The Great Consort regaled the audience with the anecdote of how Ty, Axl and he had encountered an angry male swan while walking by a pond one day.  Anders, who was twelve at the time, had bravely defended his little brothers against the aggressive feathered monster with the first weapon he had found: a soft branch of celery. It had given Ty enough time to take Axl away. Anders had managed to get out of trouble with only a few good bruises as a souvenir. John laughed wholeheartedly with the others, even if he felt that sleepiness was getting to him. He was fighting to keep his eyes open; the long day of outdoor labor had left him exhausted.

One of the handmaidens begged Anders to narrate the second trial in the glen again, but as John stood up, everybody imitated him as the protocol required. The brunet made a gesture to enjoin them to sit down, but they didn't move.

"I'm going to sleep, but you can all stay here and enjoy my husband's storytelling talents some more," he told them.

"Are you sure?" Anders asked as John stepped toward him to kiss him goodnight on the forehead.

"Yes, of course," the brunet replied, breathing in the fresh scent of the pale hairline. "Good night, _a ghraìd_ ," he added with a last stroke of his thumb to his consort's cheekbone.

"I'll be there soon," Anders assured him. "I'm tired as well."

John kissed his mother, hugged Annie and the servants curtseyed before he walked out of the hall.

Using the few hints of energy he had left, the brunet went up the stairs to his bedroom and got changed like an automaton. As he was quickly falling asleep under the furs of the empty bed, he spent his last minutes of consciousness evaluating the state of his marital relationship. Anders and he weren't fighting anymore. His husband tolerated him quite well now. They had what one could call a friendship, and a very nice one, but he couldn't say that Anders was falling for him. If he did: he was hiding it quite well. Or maybe John wasn't able to read the signs right. He was still holding on to Miller's observation like to a life line, but the rope seemed to fray.

The lord woke up in the middle of the night and was surprised to find his husband so close to him on the bed. By dint of tossing and turning in his sleep, the older man must have ended up there. It almost looked like Anders had tried to stick to John's taming plan he didn't even know about. The brunet could feel his spouse body heat under the covers and it was both comforting and scary. He loved to have his foxy little man close and it would kill him to see him go. Slowly, trying not to wake the other man, the lord slipped a hand under the covers and laced his fingers with Anders’ when he found his hand.  The blond man emitted a low, sleepy groan and rolled onto his side. As a result, his forehead was now resting against John's upper arm. The brunet shifted to his side as well and leaned down to put the lightest, softest kiss to his consort's temple not to disturb the smaller man’s journey in the lands of dreams.

*******

On the last day of the week of the spirit of dreams, Brastàl's consort attended his first justice court, his silver torc around his neck and seated to the right of his husband's throne, on the wood carved chair reserved for him.

Today's trial was the one of a former butcher apprentice from Longdale named Boyd Cailean.

The young man was accused of arson by his former boss: Master Barclay. His shop had burnt to the ground three weeks ago and the butcher was convinced it was Cailean who had set it on fire as a vengeance. Not long before the fire, Barclay had discovered that his employee was asking more money of the clients when he was making deliveries and kept the extra money for himself. The apprentice was also courting the butcher's daughter, and when he had cleared the boy, Barclay had made his daughter swear that she would not see him again.

John and Anders heard several witnesses who said they had seen Cailean enter the Butcher's shop during his absence, about an hour before people noticed that the shop was burning.

The apprentice was maintaining that the only reason why he had gone there that day was to take back a necklace he had given to the butcher's daughter. When interrogated by John, the man claimed his total innocence. He swore to have taken the necklace he had found in a drawer inside the shop and left right away without lighting a candle or anything else that could have started a fire. To show to the court his good intentions, Cailean even gave the necklace back to the butcher, admitting he had made a mistake by taking it and that he didn't want to be convicted for theft.  

After having heard all the interested parties, Anders leant toward his husband to whisper in his ear: "the apprentice is lying. Something isn't straight in his story."

"I know, I feel it too," John agreed in the same tone, "but how do we prove it?"

Anders let himself plunge in deep thoughts for a while, scratching his chin. Then, he asked his spouse for the permission to speak, which John gave him with a nod.

"Master Barclay," the blond man began, "you must remember that the day of the fire, there was this huge thunderstorm in the evening."

John ducked his head to the side, curious to see where his husband was going with that question. Indeed, the fire had happened the same day Anders had left the castle after having caught him in the act with Miller. This thunderstorm was not something he would forget any time soon.

"Yes," the butcher replied. "The rain that started at night helped extinguish the last flames, but it was too late and the shop had already burnt down."

"That morning, when you left your shop, did you leave your windows open despite the temperature?"

"No. Warm, humid air like before a thunderstorm makes the meat decay quickly and since I had a few pieces hung in the shop, I closed the window shutters before leaving."

"Can you tell the court if your former apprentice held that knowledge of the effect of humidity on the meat?" Anders questioned, adopting a confident posture in his wooden chair.   

"Of course he did: everybody with half a brain knows that!"

"Perfect, that’s excellent. Thank you for that useful information, Master Barclay," the aklànder told him.

John looked at his spouse, a bit puzzled.

"Trust me," Anders breathed, putting his hand on his forearm briefly before getting back to his interrogatory by addressing the accused: "According to your former boss, you knew that humidity makes meat decay quicker. I suspect that when you were there, searching for the necklace, on top of robbing him, you also opened the window shutters to spoil the meat and harm his business. Is it what you did?"

"NO! I didn't!" Cailean protested. "Like I already said, I wasn't there to harm his business: just to get the necklace back!!! And I don't understand how the state of the meat has something to do with my case."

"That's a good thing you're not required to understand, then, but only to answer my questions," Anders put him at his place.

Cailean looked at Lord Mitchell pointedly, in some vain attempt to make him silence his consort. But the brunet only rested back in his chair with his arms crossed, enjoying the show.

"So, you told the court that you went to Master Barclay's shop that day to find a necklace," Anders recapitulated. "Since the beginning, you're swearing that once there, you just took it and left right away. You didn't light any candle, didn't light a fire in the hearth and didn't open any of the window shutters. Are you maintaining that version?"

"I am," the butcher boy groaned.  

"Fine," Anders declared, with the smirk of a viper that cornered a fat squirrel. "Now can you explain to the court how you managed to find a necklace in the dark with absolutely no source of light whatsoever?"

The accused went pale and swallowed thickly. Then, his face took the crimson color of rage.

John looked at his husband, mouth agape. Anders, as expected, looked quite pleased with himself: something the warrior couldn't blame him for. This little red fox would never stop to amaze him. He had to fight a sudden urge of taking Anders and making love to him on his throne right away.

He regained his right mind a few seconds later, remembering he had a lying butcher boy to convict of arson. "Do you have something else to say in your defense before I announce my verdict," John asked the accused.

"Yes!!! I have one thing to say!!! One day, my lord, you'll be standing alone on the ashes of the federation and you'll realize you were mistaken when you took this stranger filth into your bed !!!" Cailean yelled, pointing a trembling finger at Anders. "It already started spreading out its stench to the whole country, mark my words!!!"

It was the Lord's turn to have his face of a sudden and dangerous pallor. John stood up slowly, his eyes grew dark and menacing. "Congratulations. By insulting the Great Consort, you committed a crime of high treason and you just won three months of imprisonment in addition to the two months I was about to give you for the arson," Lord Mitchell spat, his tone like a stabbing knife. "Take this miserable individual to the jails," he ordered the guards who immediately grasped the convict. "I already feel sorry for the rats that are going to be forced to share his cell," he hissed as the butcher boy was dragged away, still screaming curses at the top of his lungs.

The Great Lord looked so infuriated that even Master Barclay and the other witnesses left the room quickly without a murmur.  The blond man was about to do the same when his husband called him, trying his best to get back to a gentle tone. "Anders…"

"Yes, your highness?" the consort asked, turning around. There was no mocking in his answer: just a slight worry.

"I wished your first justice court had gone differently," John apologized.  

"That's fine, really," Anders reassured him with a dismissive gesture. "On the contrary, I think it went rather well.  Trust me; I heard worse things than that before. I'm kind of desensitized now. I'm just glad to see you don't share his opinion about me."

"I don't. I would never think such things."

The older man nodded in silence.

"You did great today. I'm very proud of you," John added, letting sincere affection flow out with the words.

Anders smiled. "I'm quite proud of myself as well."

"You have every reason to be," the lord agreed, putting a hand on the smaller man's shoulder. "I have to go to the jail now, but you're free for the rest of the evening. You can do whatever pleases you."

"Thank you, my lord," Anders replied, bowing down with respect before taking his leave.

***

 _"One day, you'll be standing alone on the ashes of the Federation…."_ these words were still gnawing John as he headed up to the jail. The burnt boat, the burnt scarecrow, and now this arsonist talking about the ashes of federation: too many events in a short time to be considered isolated coincidences anymore. _"Or maybe I'm just going crazy,"_ John pondered.

Once at the prison, he questioned the butcher boy insistently and tried to detect the signs of a conspiracy against him and his consort. As expected, the prisoner denied everything.

"I want to see a list at the end of every week of all the people who come to visit him," John asked the jailor. It was all he could do for now.  

Worn out from the nerve wrecking day, the lord of Brastàl took the direction of his bedroom, planning to get some well-deserved relaxation in an armchair in front of the hearth in good company.

"Oh, John!" Annie hailed him as he was going up the stairs. "Your bath is ready," she informed him.

"What bath?" he frowned.

"The bath you asked for…"

"I didn't ask for a bath."

"Oh…I just assumed that you did…" Annie hesitated.  "It's Sir Anders, actually: he asked me to draw you a hot bath in the big guestroom," she explained.   

His husband making the servants prepare a bath for him was a first. He pondered for a second if it wasn't meant as a message to tell him that he stank. But it was unlikely since he had washed in the morning with the kettle and the little basin as usual. "And where is Anders?" he wanted to know.

"In the library," she informed him. "Get in your bath or it's going to run cold: no way had I carried all that hot water from the kitchen to the second floor for nothing."

He thanked her and followed her to the guestroom obediently. It would indeed be a shame to waste all that water.  

She helped him remove his clothes and he sank into the hot bath with a delighted sigh. He had the foolish wish that maybe Anders would come and share it with him and that Annie would leave them alone. It was a fantasy he knew would not come true any time soon.

"I think you were a bit hard on Anders," John told her, resting his head back against the edge of the tub as she undid his hair plait.   

"When?"

"When you spoke to him about me in the garden: I was in the library and heard everything," he admitted.  

"Hard? Me? I only told him the truth," she replied. "He was getting a bit too neglecting with you to my liking. He needed to hear it. I don't regret anything. I do not hate him. I had to make him face the consequences of his own acts."

 _"I want to convince him to stay,"_ John mused, closing his eyes, already somewhere else in his train of thought. "I want to do something nice for him," he said out loud.

"You always do nice things for him, it's his turn now," she objected.  

John stayed silent and Annie understood he would have none of it.

"His birthweek begins tomorrow," he added for emphasis.  

"Fine," she sighed as she grabbed the hairbrush, "Do you have anything in mind yet?"

"No… that's why I need your help. With a wife I would maybe offer flowers or a dress… or anything else that strikes her fancy, but with my husband: I have no idea."

"What strikes Anders' fancy?"

"Hm. He likes sweets and pastries, but I want to give him something more special."

" Maybe you could gift him something he used to have in Aklànd and wasn't able to bring here…"

"Ooooh," he breathed, opening his eyes at the sudden idea that lightened up in his mind. "That's a genius idea, Annie."

"Er… well… you're welcome," the maid stuttered, not exactly sure how she had helped at all.  

 

***

 

Later, when John regained his bedchamber, his kilt around his hips to protect his modesty, he found Anders already in the bed, reading.

"How are you feeling?" the blond man inquired, closing his book and putting it away.

"Relaxed," the brunet admitted, drying the remaining water drops clinging to his shoulders with a corner of the kilt.

"Perfect," Anders approved. "You looked like someone who could use a good bath. You were a ball of nerves after the court session. You seemed so angry I was afraid you might burst."

"Of course I was upset," John replied walking behind the folding screen to take off the humid kilt and put on his night shirt.  "Whoever insults my husband incurs my wrath."

"I'm afraid half of the North Hills can potentially incur your wrath, then," was the sighed response from the other side of the screen.

"So be it: they have to learn to respect you," John stated firmly, crossing the room to put a log in the fireplace.

He came back to the bed and his heart melted a bit as he stood by his husband's side in order to untie the curtain from the bedpost and he looked down into those blue eyes staring at him. "Thanks for the bath," John murmured, running his finger in the loop of a  silky, blond curl.

"Don't thank me; Annie did the entire job. The only thing I did was ask her to prepare it for you."

"Still, it was a kind attention," John stated, walking around the bed and slipping under the furs.

That night, the young lord cheated on his taming plan and lied down a few centimeters closer to his other half than he should have. One of his last thoughts was about Master Sìleas. The healer surely had some kind of foreseeing gift, because a small jar was exactly what he needed. John fell asleep with a smile on his face.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your feedback is my fuel and my comfort when writing is getting a bit harder. Please leave me your thoughts, my lovelies.


	13. Silver Arrows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANKSSSSS to my incredible princess of a beta, the lovely Katyushha, one of the loves of my life. THANKSSS to dragon4488 for the inspiration and ovaries explosion she gives me with her talent.

John woke up as the first rays of the sun started to filter through the velvet curtains of the bed. He hadn't slept very well: too nervous. Today was most probably his last chance to win Anders' heart and convince him that the eternity with him was a good choice. He had spent the last day preparing his surprise and getting twice the work at the castle done to be able to have his day off. Since yesterday was also the first day of the week of Braìg, the spouses had gone to the temple in the evening to  assist the priests with the ceremony that marked the beginning of the week and to give an offering to Anders' tutelary spirit.

There was a sleeping form next to John in the bed. The lord pushed the blankets and furs away to find his husband curled up underneath like a dormouse. Gently, he brushed a blond strand away from the sleeping face and shook Anders' shoulder. "It's time to wake up, my dear," he whispered in his consort's ear.  

The Great Consort stretched and tried to grasp the covers to put them back above his head. "Hrm… fine… if you go to town, please bring me back a bag of those candied almonds," he muttered.   

"I'm not going to town," John objected, keeping the covers out of the blond's reach, "we are going for a horse ride together."

Slowly but surely, Anders registered his husband's words. "Why !? Why so early!?" he whined, hugging his pillow. "I need to sleep…"

"You'll sleep when you're old," John replied, deadpan, leaving the bed and opening the curtains.

"I am old," the aklànder protested. His voice came muffled under the pelts he had managed to grab and hide back under.  

"Come on, slothful badger," the brunet teased him, taking a clean kilt and a shirt out of his closet.

Anders suddenly emerged from his hiding place and sat up in the bed. "What did you just call me?" he groaned, but the messy blond hair, that looked like bushes where a bird had aggressively tried to make its nest, was removing all credibility from the consort's contempt.

"You're going to have to get up if you want to take your revenge," John stated as he walked behind the folding screen to get changed. When he came out from there, his husband was still seated on the bed, rubbing his face.  "Get dressed while I'm going to the kitchen," John told him, leaving a quick kiss in the dishevelled hair.

 

***

The servants stopped working and curtseyed when their lord entered the kitchens: every one of them but Annie, who simply gave him the basket she had prepared for him.

He thanked her with a kiss on the cheek and as the other maids went back to their work, John leant down to whisper in his friend's ear: "today is the day."

"You seem confident," Annie winked.  

"I have no choice but to show some confidence I think," he sighed.  

"Break a leg," the maid said, watching him take the stairs back to the donjon tower.

He was almost expecting to have to take Anders out of bed by force; therefore, he had a hard time hiding his surprise when he found his husband seated at the edge of the bed, waiting for him and fully dressed. He had already put on the dark green cloak with hare fur around the hood he had bought in town the day after his brothers had left Brastàl. He even smiled at him when John stepped into the room.   

"I just have one thing or two to do and we are good to go," the warrior informed him, putting his coat on and walking to the table to grab his fingerless gloves. He also took the jar Silèas had given him and an hourglass which he opened. Following his old master’s advice, he emptied the jar of sand into the hourglass. The empty jar was carefully placed into the basket John was carrying and the lord offered his arm to his husband to escort him out of the room.

It was one of those partially cloudy autumn days where it was pretty comfortable as long as the sun was shining, but as soon as a cloud passed in front and blocked its rays, it got freezing.

They put the bridles on their horses and brought them out of the stables.

Pessa would usually pick on the white horse: trying to kick or bite Ornàn when he was too close to her, but today, as they stood side by side while their masters were tightening the straps of the saddles, she was very gentle: sniffing the stallion's nose softly. It was very unlike the impetuous gray mare to act like that.

"What's going on with you?" John asked her, patting her flank before jumping on his saddle in one swift move.   

"The last time I took her out while you were busy, Master Finn told me that he is pretty sure she is in heat," Anders informed his husband as they were trotting side by side through the opened gate. "She wasn't kept with stallions before and he thinks that having my horse in the neighbouring box may have triggered her to come into heat even if it's not the season."

"That would explain a lot of things," John remarked.  

"That would also explain why Ornàn is acting like a total idiot around her as well," Anders added. As a testimony of his master's words, the stallion neighed and sneezed like he had a whole swarm of flies inside his nostrils.

"Typical male…" John chuckled. "But I'd prefer if they did not play mommy and daddy together to be honest."

"Why? Because I'd be the legal owner of the foal?" the blond man asked. According to the North Hills Laws, a foal was indeed the propriety of the owner of the stallion who had mounted the mare, unless said owner decided otherwise.

"Nah, I wouldn't mind. It's more that if I have to lead any military campaign in the upcoming year, I don't want to have to do it on a heavily pregnant horse."

"Understandable," Anders conceded.   

They rode down the road toward the river and when they passed near the docks, Anders pointed at the shipyard where the Lady Astreed was starting to look more like a boat than a heap of wooden planks. "The work seems to go well," he commented.

John's train of thoughts drifted from the boat to Anders' mother. There were so many unanswered questions about her; from the lands of spirits, she still was his mother-in-law after all.  As they rode along the Quigley river and entered the woods, John dared question the other man on that matter.  

"Your mother…. did she leave you anything, any clue of who she was and where she came from?"

"The only thing she left me is my name," the blond man sighed. " 'Anders' is the only word she said the first time she held me in her arms, she didn't say anything else until she died ten days later, so it's also the last one she pronounced."

Because he had been engaged to the Aklànder for so long and heard this name all the time, John hadn't realized that, just like his husband himself, it was something unique. Now that he thought about it, he didn't know anybody else who was named "Anders", even in the history of the North Hills, when he knew plenty of other "John"s.

"Maybe it's not even a name," Anders continued. "My younger brothers used to tease me saying that it meant 'old goat'. Maybe they were right. I'll never know."

"I'm pretty sure it doesn't have anything to do with goats," the brunet reassured him.

The Great Consort stayed quiet, lost in his own musings and contemplating the landscape as they made their way through the forest on the riverbank. They rode with their horses' hooves splashing water around until they arrived at the rapids where the Eachann met the Quigley river.

"We are stopping here," John announced, jumping down his mare and tying the reins to a nearby tree. His husband imitated him while the brunet was untying the basket from behind his saddle and settling a large blanket on the ground. "Are you hungry?" he asked his spouse who raised an eyebrow. "A picnic…. That's a shame I didn't bring my umbrella and my hand fan."

"I don't think you would have needed them," the lord stated, impassive, patting the blanket at his side, silently inviting his spouse to join him.

They were both hungry, not having taken the time to eat anything before leaving the castle. They did honor to the delicious meal Annie had prepared for them: a bottle of red wine, rosemary spiced bread, roast goose, elderberry cookies and a bag of candied almonds for Anders. They spoke a bit, in a low tone, like they didn't want to disturb the birds' chirp and the sound of the river.  Neither of them felt the need to speak a lot. It was nice and comfortable the way it was.

When they were finished, John went back to his horse to take something in his saddle. It had been a real adventure to get this fishing net. Yesterday, the lord had left the castle subtly to go to the docks and find a fisherman that would be ready to weave him a net in less than a day. And it wasn't any net he was asking for, but one that could be used to catch silver minnows. The fish were very tiny and quick. John remembered when he was young, trying to catch some with his bare hands: an impossible task. The fisherman he had hired to make the net had not been able to understand why his lord would want to catch minnows: "you're losing your time, Your Highness; there is no meat on them. You'd have to get at least a hundred of them to be able to make a decent bowl of soup." John had tried to explain to the man the custom in Aklànd that consisted in keeping fish alive in a jar, but finally gave up and just asked him to get the net done before sundown.

As he walked back to the blanket, the brunet grabbed the jar that formerly contained the sand and he put it in the hands of a puzzled Anders. "You'll need it to bring your new fish back to the castle," he explained with a smile.

"Oh," Anders breathed, staring at the jar in his hands.

The lord went down to the river, took off his boots, coat and shirt and tossed them on the riverbank. This way, if he fell into the water, he would still have some dry clothes.

"Be careful," Anders told him, still seated on the blanket as his husband was walking into the icy water, trying his best to stand up on the slippery rocks.

John walked a few meters upstream, the net in his hands, convinced that he would soon see the silver fish swimming like flying arrows around his ankles. He searched for the minnows in vain, until he barely felt his feet anymore. When realization suddenly hit him, he found himself extremely stupid. It was always in the middle of summer that, as a young boy, he used to come here and chase them. It was nearly the winter now. If there were still minnows somewhere, they were now at the bottom of the Quigley river, not in the shallow waters of the rapids. Vexed and disappointed, he made his way back to the bank.

"Any luck?" Anders inquired.

"No."

"I don't think it's the right time of the year," the blond pointed out, looking genuinely sorry for his spouse.

The lord was about to step back on the bank when he slipped. He managed to contort himself in a comic pose at the last second to grab a branch and not fall into the water. The acrobatic move made the aklànder burst in laughter.

"Oh, you think it's funny, do you?" John exclaimed in a mock groan, jumping forward and out of the water to grab the heel of one of Anders' boots and drag him down in the mud, despite his husband's indignant cries of protest mixed with laughter.

"Serves you well," John snickered, smearing a good handful of mud on his consort's shins.

The brunet took his clothes and walked back to the horses before his spouse could try to retaliate. Anders was still giggling as he wiped the mud off his legs with the edge of his kilt, following his husband into the forest.

The lord put his clothes on the top of his saddle and leant back against his horse’s strong flank to watch his other half with a little smile. "You look beautiful like that," he observed.

"Covered in mud?"

"No… smiling I mean. You have a lovely smile."

At those words, Anders' grin immediately disappeared and he evaded the lord's loving gaze.

John felt his throat tighten at the sight: he had obviously made a mistake once more.

He left Anders there to tidy the rests of their meal from the blanket and bring the empty bottle, the wine goblets and the basket back to his mare. He proceeded to tie the basket to the saddle without a word, turning his back on his consort.

"Thanks… for today…. I had fun….," Anders said in a hesitant, low voice, "it was nice of you to try to catch fish for my tank."

"You're welcome. It's just a shame we didn't get to catch any," the warrior replied in a neutral tone.  

John heard his partner's footsteps coming closer in the dried leaves. Suddenly, it was like a lightning strike had crossed his body when he felt soft lips and the tip of a nose grazing the skin at the top of his spine. A warm hand was placed between his shoulder blades.

John lifted his head from his task and froze for a second. He didn't turn around and resumed what he was doing, ignoring Anders. The lips kissed his shoulder and the hand went down his back to his waist in a soft caress.

John shivered and stopped moving again. "If you don't feel it, please don't do it," he told Anders guardedly. He couldn't bear to receive affection from his husband if it was only to be pushed away if he tried to give some back. His heart probably couldn't take to be rejected again: it would be too painful to endure. He preferred to have nothing at all than a false hope.

He felt Anders' sigh blowing on the skin at the back of his shoulder. "Please John … look at me at least."  

The brunet's heart made a leap in his chest. It was the first time his husband had called him by his first name. He turned around slowly. Anders was looking down: sad and guilty.

"Anders-" John began, but his husband shushed him.

"Let me speak, please," Anders demanded, before taking a deep breath. "When we were in those ruins along the road, the day of the thunderstorm, and I said I wanted to go; you begged me to give you another chance," the blond man reminded him, "but you don't need another chance; it's me who needs one. I need another chance not to be a swine with you."

"I just don't understand what I said or did to make you that upset about me from the start," John confessed. "I understand that what your stepmother did to you is unforgivable, but I can't help but think that it doesn't explain everything: it doesn't explain what keeps you from accepting my love. But I don't think you're a swine."

"Yes. I am," the older man objected. "We should stop making excuses for my ill behavior. What others did to me in the past cannot justify how I treated you. Moreover, you didn't do anything wrong, at least not on purpose. I was rebelling against the idea of that marriage long before even meeting you. I spend twenty years repeating myself every day that I didn't want it to happen. I was supposed to hate you, you know? I always conditioned myself to loathe you. You are my jailer: the one depriving me of my liberty, stripping me of my identity, imposing me a way of life I didn't choose.  That should have been easy to detest you, and yet, as soon as I laid my eyes on you I started realizing I couldn't. I knew you were a warrior, and Mikkel told me many times how he had seen you slide nomads' throats without pity. He thought it would make me admire you, but instead, I chose to picture you as barbaric filth. I always imagined you ugly, egoistic and coarse. You weren't supposed to be affectionate, attentive, selfless, sincere and damn attractive. That wasn't in my plans at all," Anders stated. "Those biceps surely weren't in my plans," he added, poking his husband's strong arm with his forefinger.

John chuckled, unshed tears suddenly misting his eyes.

"During the trials, and even after we got married, I was constantly waiting for your true nature to show through the false mask of kindness I thought you were wearing, but it didn't happen, " Anders went on. "The monster I had been creating in my mind all those years didn't exist. I was angry at you for proving me wrong. Twenty years of prejudice don’t vanish in one week. I tried to provoke you, to make you hate me, because it would have given a justification to my own irrational behavior. I was starting feeling guilty and I took that frustration out on you. Now I realize I had no excuse," he confessed.  "When I saw you with that other man at the temple…. I realized I wasn't indifferent to you at all. It felt like a stab in the heart, but I also knew that it was my own fault. I had pushed you away so many times that my constant rejections gave you every right to seek comfort somewhere else. I was responsible for my own sorrow. I knew I couldn't bear the thought of looking at you again and seeing the trash I had made of our marriage. I didn't want to contemplate my own failure. I tried to escape: from you, from myself, from my guilt and my own pain mainly. It was easier to flee than face what I've done. I'm surely the worst husband and the worst Great Consort this country has ever seen." Anders shook his head with a desperate sigh. "What I did to you is probably irreparable and I know I don't deserve your kindness. I have no right to ask what I'm about to ask, but if you can find in yourself enough mercy to forgive me, I promise that I will make good use of that second chance." He bent his head forward slowly and rested his forehead on his dark-haired husband's collarbone. "Tell me I can still make amend. Tell me it's not too late, John, " the blond begged, his voice breaking on the last word.

"Anders, don't say another word," John demanded as he took his chin in his hand for his spouse's gaze to meet his.

"I can understand that you're angry with me. I would be mad if I were you."

"I'm not mad, sweet one," the great lord corrected with a smile. "It's just that you're making it difficult for me to kiss you if you keep on talking," he teased.  

In the end, it's not John who kissed his husband but Anders who grabbed his face and pulled him down to kiss him like it was the purpose of his whole life.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

From the first seconds, it was already purely delicious and arousing. Anders was kissing John like his lord and husband was a beautiful young girl: his tongue coaxing the brunet to open up for him with a kind of hungry delicacy. Instead of making him feel less manly, it made John melt and blush wildly. The deep kiss soon turned from relieved to desperate, to ardent as John circled his spouse's waist and pulled him close against him. Anders had now an arm around Mitchell's neck and his free hand was cupping the brunet's jaw, his thumb tracing patterns on his stubble. The desire, contained for so long like a smoldering fire, was ready to set flames to all their beings. Even if John wanted to do it again and again, even if it was extraordinary in itself, pressing his lips to Anders', feeling him kiss back and touch his face: suddenly it wasn't enough somehow. John's heart would not be able to find peace until he got to kiss his entire husband.

The warrior made Anders step back until he got to push him up against a tree trunk. His consort was gripping his shoulders for purchase and for keeping John close as his mouth left Anders’ in order to nip the skin of his neck with delectation. "You have no idea how long I've been waiting for this. You're driving me insane with desire, husband," John confessed in a shaky voice.

"I'm slowly getting there as well," Anders moaned, tilting his head to the side to give him a better access.

"I'm sure we can accelerate it a little bit," the brunet purred. "Lie with me."

The blond claimed John's lips again. He didn't resist, neither did he break their kiss when his husband carried him to the blanket they had left on the ground. John laid him down with as much gentleness as he could, but he tripped and tumbled down on top of Anders who didn't seem to mind the weight of the warrior above him. Instead, he captured Mitchell's hips between his legs and dragged him down by the neck to get another taste of his mouth.

Their kisses felt different than the one they had exchanged at the tournament and the ones of their wedding day. This time, Anders was giving himself fully. There was no apprehension anymore. All John was feeling was the love, passion and heat of this precious moment.

Mitchell was striving to keep his hands on his partner's torso as he kissed him deeply. Never, under any circumstances was one allowed to touch another man's kilt (the part below the belt), without a very explicit invitation from said man, even if he was your rightful husband. It was considered taboo. Just like asking a man what he wore under his kilt was a grave insult. The last thing John wanted was to lack respect to his consort, so he had to wait for Anders to bid him to take his exploration down south. His hands were on the blond man's waist, kneading the flesh through the fabric of his shirt. It was the lowest he could go for now.

One of Anders' hands was buried in his hair and the other was grasping his forearm. Their legs were tangled in an erotic braid and their hips searching the others', craving for a more intimate contact.

The blond man caught his husband's bottom lip between his teeth and pulled gently when they broke the kiss, making the brunet heave a wanton groan. They looked at each other, breathless, eyes sparkling and pupils blown wide.  John was ablaze -- lust was igniting everything. "I want your body, _a ghraìd_ ," he told his partner. "Will you let me have you?"

Anders replied with another question. "What do you want the most right now?" he asked with a teasing smirk, carding his fingers through the long dark mane that was falling like curtains both sides of their faces.

The younger man couldn't ask for what he wanted. It was improper. He had to wait for the invitation to take the foreplay further. Anders knew it and was just teasing.

"You can touch me wherever you want," Anders finally whispered to put his husband out of misery. "It's all yours I reckon."

The rush of adrenaline those words elicited was so intense it threatened to make John lose his mind. He clenched his fists in the blanket under his husband's back and took a long, deep breath. He had to control himself. To be honest, he hadn't expected that turn of event at all, and hence, hadn't brought with him any supplies to prepare Anders properly. He would prefer to die than hurt his spouse, especially during their first time together.

Furthermore, His Grace Sir Anders Mitchell wasn't a cheap whore one could fuck on the corner of a bench in the tavern; he was the North Hills' Great Consort. He deserved better than a quick, messy coupling on the cold hard ground as if they were nomads. John had to pull on the reins of his sexual impulse but it didn't mean he had given up on the idea of getting a taste of his gorgeous husband here and now. Anders had opened the door and he would step in.

John's hand traveled down the blond man's leg to the edge of the kilt. "Can I lift it up?" he asked the smaller man between soft kisses placed in the crook of his neck. "I want to see your legs and kiss your thighs."

"Yes," Anders consented in a faint whimpering breath.

Somehow John was still expecting his husband to resist him or push him away. He was stunned and amazed to feel him so pliant, so receptive.  His caress and advances, despite their flaming passion, were still unconsciously tentative on Anders' body, like John was still afraid of scaring the fabulous blond beast away. He knelt between his husband's parted legs and placed his palms on the inner sides of his knees. John watched his husband's reaction as he pushed the heavy wool fabric up slowly and cautiously. The blond man had his lips parted and was breathing heavily, watching Mitchell' through his pale lashes. "You are perfectly handsome," murmured John as he feasted his eyes on the toned and smooth thighs dusted with sparse golden hair. "I feel so lucky."

He took one of Anders' legs that was resting on the ground and bent it gently. The young man leant down and pressed his lips to the spicy skin and proceeded to trace a path of kisses up the inside of his consort's thigh. He heard his lover's breath hitch as his mouth was making its way toward his crotch, still chastely covered by the kilt.

"May I?" the brunet asked when he got there.

As Anders nodded his approbation, John lifted up the kilt some more, revealing a throbbing member and a nest of reddish curls at its base, slightly darker than Anders' hair. He cupped it in his hand right away, running a thumb along the shaft, not able to keep himself from touching. Anders rewarded him with a sharp inhale of pleasure. "Do you allow kisses there?" the lord inquired, keeping on palming his husband's erection tenderly. The blond man nodded again and gulped, apparently not able to produce any sound beside the pleasure ones. Mitchell was painfully hard as well but he kept on ignoring his own craving in order to focus on his partner. He started covering the hard but delicate flesh with open-mouthed kisses. Anders was mewling and writhing on the forest's ground. The young lord felt a hand sneaking into his hair on the back of his head. "John…" the older man begged him.

The warrior stopped and lifted his head to look at his partner. "If you want me to stop, just tell me and I will. But if on the contrary you want us to take it further; we can get back to the castle and to our room where I can make love to you properly if it's what you need. Is it what you need, _a ghraìd_? "

"Yes," was the confident reply as Anders looked into his eyes, "I think it's about time you made me yours."

***

 

The ride to the castle seemed twice the distance as they both couldn't wait to be alone together. At first John was afraid his husband's desire would evaporate before they got to the bedroom, but it seemed that Anders still wanted it, maybe even more. They hastened to bring their horses to the paddock and as they were going up the stairs, Anders suddenly pinned his spouse to the stone wall to take a long kiss from his lips. John moaned into Anders mouth as the other man devoured him shamelessly. They parted when they heard the giggles of a trio of maids who had caught them in the act.  The servants curtseyed while trying not laugh when the men noticed them.

"Don't you have some work to do elsewhere, young ladies?" Anders drove them off, "Scat! Chop, chop!"

"Yes, Your Grace. Good afternoon, Your Grace. Good afternoon, Your Highness," they told their masters. When they escaped in the stairs, the two men still could hear their giggles and excited whispering.

"Kiss me again," Anders demanded as soon as the maids’ voices had faded away.

"You're beginning to sample the delights of marriage, I see," the warrior smiled.

"Yes, I think I am," the consort murmured as he rose on tiptoes to search Mitchell's lips with his once again.

John stopped him gently. "We should take those delights to our bedroom, at least if we don't want another bunch of servants to walk on us."

"Right. Come on," Anders replied, taking John's hand and dragging him to their room.

As soon as they were behind a closed and locked door, they shed their coat and cloak and John took over Anders' undressing as he pulled the blond's shirt above his head. He did the same with his own shirt and tossed it away. The brunet had seen his husband bare-chested many times, but now he had Anders' blessing to touch and it felt perfect.

Anders undid his own belt and unfolded his blue and green kilt that fell on the floor in a bundle of tartan fabric before he applied the same treatment to John's.     

The lord stepped forward, circled the blond's waist and brought their bodies together. They both heaved a loud sigh at the sensation. His husband was so warm, soft of skin and firm of muscles, that John had a hard time believing he really was about to taste such a treat. Anders seemed even more hasty than he was: pulling him as close as he could, kneading his flesh and nearly overindulging in John's kisses to his eager mouth.

The lord parted from his husband to take his face in his large hand. He pushed his chin up with his thumb to expose the blond's throat. "Look at you, my beauty," John said in a possessive purr. "You resisted me for two moons and now you're so greedy I don't even know if I'll have enough stamina to satisfy you."

"You know; it's hard work to be a narrow-minded, blind, pretentious prick," Anders replied, as he let his lord feast on the salty flavor of his neck's skin, "I need some permanent holidays."

"Don't say those ugly things about yourself and let me bring you to our bed," John decided, leading his spouse to the baldaquin.  

He made his husband lie down in the pelts and bit the soft curve of Anders' belly just above the navel. He heard him take a gulp of air between clenched teeth.

"I'm sorry," John apologized, "I like to bite a lot, and you look so delicious."

"Don't worry: I loved it," Anders reassured his husband, "if there is something I don't like: you'll know it soon enough."

"Should I be afraid?" the younger man asked before taking another sensual bite at the blond man's hip.

"No. Anyway, you don't seem to be afraid of anything."  

"That is so not true," John objected. "I'm plagued by the fear of losing you."

He crawled on top of his lover and left a kiss over Anders' heart. "I know I'm speaking an awful lot, but would you mind terribly if I told you how desirable you are?"

"I wouldn't mind," Anders allowed him with a languishing smile.

"If only I had known how beautiful you were, as soon as I would have been old enough to be considered a man, I would have run away to Aklànd under a fake identity, begged you to take me into your bed and slept on your doorstep until you would accept to let me in," John declared.  

Anders burst in laughter, throwing his head back on the pillows, giving John a perfect access to put his lips where he could feel his partner's heart pounding and the vibration of his laughter.

"I don't think it would have been a good idea," Anders pointed out.

"How come?"

"Because, first of all, it's creepy… and because until very recently, I was too stupid to realize how much the spirits had favored me by binding my fate to the one of a man like you," the consort declared, his eyes shining in the bedroom's soft light.  

Love and lust became the same thing as John took the older man's lips in a long kiss once more; allowing his fingers to play in the short, fair curls of chest hair.

"Can you lie on your back, please?" Anders asked. "I want to do something…to repay you for what you gave me in the forest."

"You don't owe me anything, but it's an offer I can't possibly refuse," the warrior agreed, complying with the demand.  He let out a stream of Gaelic curses when, without warning, his husband's mouth engulfed him completely. The clumsy and vaguely painful scraping of teeth made it obvious that it was the first time Anders was doing that.  But just the sight of those pretty cheeks hollowed to apply a soft suction on his cock was enough to bring him close to release. "Please, please stop," John begged reluctantly after a few minutes of this exquisite torment. "I must keep some energy to satisfy you as well."

The young lord made his husband lie on his stomach and when he grabbed the oil vial he had kept hidden under their bed since the wedding night and poured some on his palm, he felt Anders shiver and tense. "Shhhh," the brunet soothed him, warming the oil by rubbing his hands together and straddling the other man's thighs. He ran his hands on Anders' lower back and dug his thumbs in the flesh to massage the stiff muscles there.  The blond man sighed with contentment and John felt him starting to relax. The Brastàler knew he was making things deliberately slow, but he wanted their first time to be an agreeable experience for his other half. Of course, John felt a lot of pressure: he would not have a second chance to make a good first impression of his skills as a lover. That's why he really had to take his time to make sure it would not be painful for Anders.

John was hard and way past beyond the point of mere arousal: there was no way of denying it. The vision of his spouse, naked and lying under him at his complete mercy was sending hot shots of need everywhere in his body.  The Aklànder was starting to be impatient as well, seeking friction and relief by unconsciously rubbing himself on the mattress.

Mitchell moved to the side and leant down to press a kiss to one of his husband's shoulder blades. "Are you ready?" he asked softly, his hand already travelling down the blond's back. Anders replied with a moan muffled by the pillow and by spreading his legs to offer himself. "Relax, my love," the lord enjoined him, putting his lips in the hollow of his spine as his fingers reached their destination. The blond did his best to obey, his hands grabbing the covers for dear life. It wasn't the first time John was doing that: he knew what he had to do to get the other man ready. Soon enough, Anders' shivers of apprehension turned into shudders of pleasure as he encouraged John to give him more.

"Can you turn around for me, please?" the brunet asked when he considered that his husband was sufficiently prepared, "I want to taste your sweet lips while taking you."

Once on his back, the smaller man put his legs around his lord's hips right away. He took the whole mass of John's abundant, dark hair in his hand and put it away from his face to one side. Then, he cupped the brunet's face and pulled him down for a searing kiss.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Not able to contain it anymore, John took this opportunity to start penetrating Anders carefully and with all the gentleness he could muster. The older man didn't break the kiss and John drank several throaty whimpers between Anders' lips as he slowly sank into the inviting body.

"You feel.so.good," John panted, his mouth still brushing over his husband's.

"You feel.really...big," the blond man replied in the same tone.  

"Is it painful?"

"Hardly. Just give me some time to… adjust."

"Take all the time you need, I'm perfectly content where I am," John assured him, tasting the golden skin of the neck and shoulder displayed before him.  The consort's hands roamed John's chest before slipping to his back and finding purchase behind his shoulder blades.

"Please," Anders breathed in an urgent murmur and the young lord gave his lover the pounding he was craving for. He slipped his hand between their united bodies and closed his oil-slicked fingers around Anders' shaft to add to the sensation of his thrusts inside him. His blond lover seemed receptive to the double stimulation, his eyes screwed shut and his lips parted in a never-ending moan.

John was receiving as well as giving: possessing and being possessed at the same time. Anders was no vulgar playmate; he was his: his husband, his soulmate. John put every fiber of his being in consummating his wedding: his body, his mind and his spirit. Every single heartbeat was for Anders. He collected the divine scent in the crook of his lover's neck, one that couldn't be compared to any garden flower. He reveled in the sound of his spouse's whimpers of delight, more agreeable to the ear than the music of any harp. He had experienced physical love before, but with Anders, he rediscovered the joys of skin, lips and hair softer than silk. The song of their lovemaking went on: it became louder and louder, more intense. "Anders… my love… _a ghraìd…_ " John was repeating like a prayer with every breath and every thrust of hips, not really knowing if those words were meant to be encouragements or pleas.

Anders arched his back when his orgasm hit him; gasping like the strength of his own pleasure had taken him by surprise. It made John giggle for some reason and his chuckle morphed into a low-pitched, throaty moan when he followed his husband in ecstasy.

He hid his face in blond curls until he managed to catch back his breath. Then, with a kiss to the blond's forehead, he gently slipped out of his warm body and let himself fall onto his back on the mattress with a blissful laugh.

Anders rolled onto his side and looked at his husband. "Why are you laughing? Was I so bad?" he asked, still breathless.

"Bad !? No! How on earth can you think you were bad? You were amazing," John smiled, lightheaded and his eyes still dopey from pleasure. "I'm laughing because I'm happy, that's all."

"Phew!" Anders let out, wiping imaginary sweat from his forehead, "for a second I thought you were questioning my performance."

"I really wasn't. Don't worry," he reassured him. The Great Lord reached a hand to caress his partner's waist lazily. "And you? Did you enjoy it?" he asked, suddenly anxious his own performance could be questionable.

"Yes… I did. I found it very pleasant in fact. It makes me want to do it again," Anders stated. "When are we going to do it again?"

John took his spouse's hand and brought it to his mouth. "Whenever you want, lover."

The blond fell silent, only watching his husband placing kisses on every one of his joints. He seemed thoughtful for a moment, then he finally spoke, hesitant: "Do you… forgive me, then…. for having been an asshole with you for so long?"

"Of course I forgive you, " the brunet replied with a slight frown. "But I hope you didn't give yourself to me to buy my forgiveness."

"NO! I didn't. I wanted it," Anders corrected. "Trust me, John," he added for emphasis, "I really wanted it."

"It was your first time with a man, was it?" John questioned between kisses trailed up his consort's arm.

Anders pulled a face. "Yeah…"

"It seems to make you ashamed for some reasons. It's not an issue for me, if it's what worries you."

"I don't like the idea of lacking experience in the bedroom department."

"I never lay with a woman," John confessed, leaving the bed to fetch a towel, "so it makes the two of us."

"Really!? You never slept with a woman?" Anders exclaimed; eyebrows raised in surprise.

John shook his head as he poured a bit of the kettle's warm water on the towel. "I never saw the interest, to be honest. But I'm sure that the experience you acquired with the lovely ladies who visited your bedchamber in Aklànd will be useful here as well. I'm confident that there are tricks you learned that you can use on me," he added handing out the piece of fabric to his husband.

"I can think about one thing or two, indeed," Anders yawned as he cleaned himself up.

"I'm looking forward to it… but for now, I think someone needs a nap," he brunet noted, pecking his husband on the lips before taking the towel back.  

"Won't you sleep with me?" the blond asked, as he saw that John had grabbed his clothes on the floor.

The lord was about to put his shirt on but he stopped mid-motion. "I'm not tired, but I will stay in bed with you if you want me to."

"Why do you think I asked?"

The warrior didn't need to hear it twice. He was more than happy to slip back under the furs with his spouse. The brunet lay down at his side, an arm across his husband's chest and his chin resting on the top of the smaller man's left shoulder. John was surprised at how fast he was falling asleep, blond hair tickling his nose as his breath was already becoming thinner.

***

 

The first thing John noticed when he slipped out of the land of the spirits was his current bare state. The covers and pelts that were covering him when he had fallen asleep were gone, pushed to the foot of the large bed. There was no sunlight coming through the windows and candles had been lightened in the bedroom.

He turned his head to the side to meet blue eyes.  "Good evening," Anders smiled. John noticed that his partner had put his night shirt on already.

"Good evening," the warrior smiled back stretching and reaching out to take his partner's small hand. "Why are the blankets gone?"

"I wanted to look at you," the Aklànder told him without any shame.

John laughed softly. "And did you see anything interesting?"

"Not really," Anders teased with a smirk." But the manservant who just brought us new candles surely did," he winked.

"You rascal!" John scolded with a low, enamoured tone that left no doubt on the real extent of his frustration. He snuggled against the blond man, but Anders, who had apparently not finished with his investigation; brushed his fingers over the large, nasty scar on the front of the warrior's left thigh. "How did you get this one?" he asked.

"Four winters ago we caught a group of nomads in the hills inside our borders. They were marching to Perrsham and were probably planning on attacking isolated villages in the McGregor's lands. A nomad fighter attacked me with an axe. My armor wasn't enough to block it entirely, but if it hadn’t been for it, I would probably have died or lost my leg at best. In the end, I'm glad it's my thigh that took the hit and not Pessa's flank."

"Yes. I remember it now. When Mike came back and told me you were injured, he brought me to the temple, saying that it would be fishy if people didn't see me pray for your recovery."

"And did you pray for me?"

"I did. I hated you back then, but I didn't wish you dead either," Anders replied honestly.

Since his love asked him to, Mitchell showed him his other scars: the one on the back of his neck, partially hidden by his hair, the one below the right hip and the one that had the shape of an arrow on his left forearm.  

"It's my turn now," John decided, pinning his consort to the mattress playfully and pulling Anders' night shirt over his head. Until now, he had never had any time to really scrutinize and explore. Now that the bandage for Anders' rib was gone  and that they were not in danger of being killed, freezing to death or drowning, John could take his time to detail his husband' nude body. He found it almost without scars, unlike his own. He allowed himself to kiss and touch, marvelling at how easy it was to make Anders aroused all over again. His husband was very unlike any other man that had shared his bed before. Where his former lovers were all copper, fallow and brown, Anders was cream white, golden and pink.

Little spots on the blond's shoulders also attracted his attention. These strange marks were too pale and numerous to be beauty spots. It almost looked like someone had sprinkled wheat bran on the Aklànder's shoulders. "What are these?" he asked him, touching lightly. "Do they hurt?"

"They never hurt. I don't really know what they are: weird kind of birthmarks I guess. When I was younger I had some on my face as well," Anders explained. "They are more apparent when I expose my skin to sunlight."

"It sounds nearly magic," John pondered. He started to find the little spots mysteriously endearing.  

"There was a servant wench in Aklànd who used to share my bed from time to time: she called them sunflakes."  

"Sunflakes…" the brunet repeated, leaning down to kiss them.

"I have a present for you," Anders suddenly said, reaching for his book on the nightstand.

"Yes? But it's your birthweek, not mine," the lord protested.

The older man raised an eyebrow. "Do you want it or not?"

"Yes, I want it, please."

Anders took an envelope from between the book's pages and handed it to his spouse.

"What is it?" the younger man asked, curious, sitting up in the bed, not sure if he should be touched, nervous or excited.

"Open it and you'll see."

John opened the lid of the envelope carefully like he didn't want to tear it up or crumble it. There was a folded paper in it. Along with it, he found a curl of blond hair, kept together by a leather lace. He turned the envelope upside down and shook it until the strand fell on his flat palm. He looked at it, speechless, feeling a lump forming in his throat, then his lifted his gaze to meet the one of his smiling consort.

"I think that the next step is to read the letter," Anders encouraged him with indulgence.

John's fingers were trembling slightly when he unfolded the piece of paper, not really knowing what to expect.

 

_Brastàl, Last day of Réev, First Year of the 11th G.L. (May he live long)_

_My dear husband,_

_I noticed on our wedding day that you seemed quite distressed to have to give away my letter and the strand of hair I sent you long ago. I'm sure my tutelary spirit was pleased with the gift, since you seemed to cherish it a lot, but nothing forbids me to replace your loss._

_I have to confess that the last letter was meant as a provocation from the lost, angry, recalcitrant teenager I was, who paradoxically also wanted to get your approbation. Maybe it was a good thing you got rid of it after all. I don't want negative or confused feelings to live between us anymore._

_The letter you get today has been written with the intention of reminding you that my undying loyalty binds me to you, that I'll be faithful and true to you until I draw my last breath and will watch over you beyond death._

_Undoubtedly yours_

_Anders J. Mitchell_

 

 

John read the letter three times in silence, fighting happy tears that threatened to spill out if he read it one more time.

The hard frown on his husband's face and the absence of verbal reaction was obviously starting to make Anders nervous: "I know that this doesn't make up for all the letters I never sent you," he said, pitiful.  

The lord folded the letter and put it back in its envelope carefully, along with the strand of hair, and placed it under his pillow.

"As long as I have your love, it can make up for anything," he told the other man, cupping his face with both hands to look into his eyes. "Thank you so much, my darling love. I will cherish this gift nearly as much as I cherish you."

Lost in their kiss, they lay back on the mattress and spent a few minutes just enjoying each other.  

"Now that I think about it, I also have another present for you," Anders pondered out loud. "I'm giving you the foal you're going to get in eleven months."

"What are you talking about?"

"In our hurry to come back here, we didn't think and we put Pessa and Ornàn in the same paddock," the blond pointed out.  

"Death Spirit!!!" John cursed, sitting up straight in the bed at the realization.

"That's fine," Anders soothed him, putting his hand on the middle of John's chest to push him back down to the bed. "It's probably too late anyway. Unlike me, my stallion knows how to seize a good opportunity when he sees one."

A silence lingered in the room, until Anders felt the need to confess something: "I will never forsake you again, you know. But I don't know if I'll be very good at it. I mean… the affection and all. I never let anyone come that close to me. "

"Why did you finally let me come close?"

"Because I trust you: you're my husband."

"That is the correct answer," John approved, leaving a light peck on the blond's nose.  

"I wasn't joking, though. I'm not even sure if I know how to be tender…"

"Come here," the warrior urged his husband, opening his arms. The older man snuggled against the dark, furry chest without hesitation. "Does it feel good?" the brunet asked, closing his arms around his spouse’s compact frame.

"Yes. It feels safe… and warm," Anders conceded, closing his eyes.

"Then just stay here - enjoy the warmth and the safety. It doesn't have to be more complicated than that."

"Thanks," Anders whispered. "Thanks for loving me despite what I look like and who I am."

"That's where you're wrong, _a ghraìd_ ," John replied, burying his fingers in the pale mane and scraping the scalp lightly, "I love you precisely because of who you are."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked it, lovelies. If it's the case: please let me know. :)


	14. A Purpose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At this point I think there is no words good enough to thank the wonderful girls (katyushha and dragon4488) who accompanied me and inspired me during this nearly 200 pages adventure. I love you, my muses. <3<3<3

A pile of reports from his lands' cities on his lap and seated on the bed, Lord Mitchell was trying to get some late night work done. He made a genuine effort to keep focusing on the parchment in his hands and ignore the rustling of fabric: telltale sign of his other half taking his kilt off on the other side of the bed curtains.

Anders pushed the curtain aside and crawled to the bed. He rolled onto his back in the lush fur like a lazy cat, moving languidly and stretching his back. A soft, relieved moan escaped his lips.

In the report John was still trying to read, the words "rock mine" suddenly morphed into "cock line" before his eyes. He failed to prevent his gaze from straying out of the piece of paper and to the middle of the bed where Anders displayed his bare body like a voluptuous offering.

"Is there something I can help you with, Your Grace?" the brunet asked, using his husband's title as a tease.

"Nothing," Anders smiled, the perfect incarnation of innocence. "Keep on with your good work," he added, reaching a hand to trace the curve of John's foot and ankle.

The lord understood that his husband didn't really mean those words.  "Enough for tonight," he decided. The reports dropped to the floor, on the side of the bed, forgotten. "I can't get anything done when you're around, you beautiful being of pure evil."

"You can't blame me for your short attention span," Anders retorted with a victorious smirk.

John grabbed his husband by the hips to keep him still on the bed as he put his lip in the velvety and fragrant hollow of his navel. Then, he nibbled a wet path to his solar plexus and blanketed his spouse's warm body with his. John kissed him deeply. His consort tasted like red wine and yearning. The lord rested his forehead against his lover's for a moment and the honey brown eyes stared into the lustrous blue ones. Softly, John ran the tip of his nose up along the bridge of Anders' one and he left a light kiss between his spouse's eyebrows. Anders cupped his face with his left hand and John turned his head slightly to press his lips to the wedding tattoo. "I love you and I want you, every second of every day… a little more with every heartbeat," he breathed against the inked flesh.

Anders' brilliant grin said it all. "I should try to distract you more often."

"I still have a federation to rule, you know, even if I have the most tempting man of the country as a consort."

"You'll rule your country tomorrow. You have duties in this bed as well."

"I am obliged to you, Sir Mitchell," John whispered in the crook of his husband's neck before proceeding to lavish it with kisses as he ran a hand down to the beautiful legs he loved so much.

"I want to be the one taking you tonight," Anders whispered, slipping his hands under John's night shirt to fondle the muscular behind.

With any other man, John would maybe have hesitated to comply: but not with his husband. He had a complete trust in him and even felt a delicious tension in his lower belly at the idea of Anders making love to him. "I want everything you can give me," he agreed, not trying to conceal the lust in his voice. He had nothing to hide from his husband: he would bare his body, his heart and his very soul if only Anders asked.

***

Watching his spouse being relaxed, sated and asleep after passionate sex was John's new favorite hobby.  He didn't want to close the bed curtains, because it would mean total darkness and he wouldn't be able to see his other half anymore, and he really liked to be able to see his Anders.

On the other hand, when you lived in a castle, privacy was a very relative concept. It wasn't rare that servants would enter the room in the middle of the night to put logs in the fire or refill the kettle with water. The brunet didn't want the servants to check his husband's naked body out if the pelts and covers slipped off him during the night. John was still a bit possessive of the unique man who shared his bed, but as the days passed, he felt less and less that visceral need to make sure Anders was his and his alone. The fact they belonged with each other became an established certitude and it seemed like he didn't have to worry about that anymore. They were good together and it was like a dream come true for Lord Mitchell. He finally had a man who loved him and wanted him. Now, along with a consort and a husband, he also had a lover.

Also, it turned out Anders loved sex a lot and John couldn't possibly complain. This situation had a downside, though. Every day seemed excruciatingly long to the Great Lord who constantly counted the hours until the blessed moment when he would slip under his bed furs to satisfy his husband.  The blond man obviously enjoyed those moments. When they were lying together, the Aklànder smiled, laughed sometimes; he seemed relaxed and carefree. The sarcastic, fiercely smart and witty Anders still existed, but the lord wouldn't have wanted to lose that side of him.  John was quite happy to have succeeded in taming this beautiful fox who now asked for his touch every time they were alone and away from the sight of prying eyes.

Their new found mutual desire and love hadn't sorted everything out, though. It was obvious that, even if Anders found pleasure and relief in their sexual life and had grown used to John’s displays of affection, he was still bored when his lord wasn't around. Despite all the brunet's efforts to find him useful occupations, there was still that kind of lingering melancholy surrounding the blond man. As the consort, it would be mainly Anders' task to take care of their heirs and bring them up, but it was too soon to even bring up the matter of children with Anders. He knew he would have to prepare Anders for a long time to get him to accept the mere idea of fatherhood.

Finally choosing against closing the curtains, John snuggled against his husband and dived into a dreamless sleep.

He woke up early the next morning and got dressed as silently as possible not to wake his spouse. He knew he had promised not to leave Anders alone in their bed again: but he had a good reason to do so. Today was the last day of the week of Braìg: Anders' birthweek. It was usually on that last day of a birthweek that the presents were given, and, after the fish fail, Mitchell hadn't found any suitable gift for his husband yet. He wrote a little note on a piece of paper to let Anders know he was gone to the market on an urgent business and would be back soon.

***

 

The weather was windy and cold. A displeasing reminder that winter was knocking at the door. Pulling his coat around his shoulders, the Great Lord walked down the main street in the direction of the marketplace, several options of presents turning in his mind in a confusing tempest.

_A weapon? No. Anders already had a sword and two daggers._

_Sweets? Bah. He already fed his spouse sweets and pastries all the time. It would not be very original._

_Clothes? No. John had made sure Anders had all the clothes he needed in the very first days of their wedding._

_Jewels? Hm. Anders was not really the "jewellery" type. The only piece of jewellery he wore was the necklace with the symbol of Braìg John had given him a few years ago._

_Maybe he would like some new horse-riding equipment instead…_

The lord wandered around the marketplace like a lost soul. Not able to make up his mind.

He finally stopped by a hunter's display. The man had deer meat, fur pelts and marsh ducks to sell. John approached and the hunter hastened to show his lord his finest pelts. The brunet looked at the merchandize but he wasn't really interested. He already had all the pelts he needed and it was not the kind of gift he was looking for.

Something on the display still attracted his attention. "What's in there?" he asked, pointing at a wooden box that clearly contained something alive because he could hear pitiful little cries coming out of it.

The hunter sighed and opened the lid for John to look. "Oh," John let out when he saw the baby animal inside. This couldn't be just a coincidence. It was a sign - a wink from the spirits.

"Its mother got caught in one of my traps," the hunter explained. "I found this little one afterward. I couldn't get myself to kill it, but I honestly don't know what to do with it. If you're interested, it's yours for eight shillings, my lord."

Lord Mitchell grinned as he took the money from his purse. He had found the perfect gift for his husband.

***

 

"Good morning, my joy and delight," Mitchell beamed as he pushed the half-opened door with his foot and carried the box inside the bedroom.

"Good morning yourself," Anders greeted him back, putting his book away and standing up from his sitting place in order to walk to his husband and kiss him. He stopped dead in his tracks when the box in John's hands made a strangled yelping. "What's that?" he asked suspiciously.

"That, my love, is my present for your birthweek," John replied, quite proud of himself.  

Anders made a few more steps then stopped again when he heard angry scratching inside the box. "Do I really have to open it myself?"

"What are you afraid of?" the young man chuckled.

"Snakes, dying alone, mysterious boxes that make strange noises…"

"Open it, I promise it's nothing dangerous. I give you my word."

Trusting his husband, Anders opened the wooden lid carefully. Inside, there was a small ball of ginger fur with dark, pointy ears, a bushy tail and a little nose that peeked out of the box to sniff at the blond's clothes. "Oh… it's a …." the consort stuttered. Then, he looked at his spouse, eyes wide with surprise. "You're giving me a baby fox?"

"It's a young vixen, actually." John specified, scooping the cub under the belly and putting it in the arms of a still stunned Anders. "I just checked."

"That was not my point…"

"You're not happy? Look how adorable she is," the warrior rejoiced, tickling the pup's ears with the tip of his forefinger.  

"Er…. It's trying to eat my clothes," Anders pointed out, apparently not able to be anything but stunned, as the fox chewed on the fabric of his waistcoat.  

"The poor thing is starving. She has no mommy anymore. I don’t know much about foxes but she may be too young to eat meat. You should go to the kitchens and find her some milk," John told him, placing a hand behind Anders' head and pulling it forward to press a kiss on his forehead.  "I have to go now. There is a training of the recruits I have to supervise with George. I leave you two to get better acquainted. I'll be back in a few hours."

"It's not a gift when it comes with work to do and responsibilities!" Anders protested as Mitchell headed to the door. The brunet smirked and ignored his husband's complaints.

"Don't forget to keep her warm," he said, passing his head through the door's opening to blow his husband a teasing kiss, for which he was rewarded by his consort pulling a face at him.  

***

 

When John came back to his apartments around noon to share the midday meal with his husband, the blond man was absent. The manservant who brought him his food told him that the Great Consort was still in the kitchen with Annie and a bunch of maids who were busy cooing over the fox cub.

John ate alone, wondering for a second if it was the best gift idea after all. What if his husband decided to replace him with his new pet? He chid himself for entertaining such silly and irrational thoughts.  

As soon as he had eaten the last crumb of bread from his plate, John was immediately called to the council hall by his advisors and he had to forget his project of going to the kitchens to see how things were going between his husband and his little furry friend.

Much to his regret, he only managed to regain his room late after sundown. He asked servants to bring supper to his bedroom. Before going upstairs, John took two boxes in the armory that he had make sure to keep hidden from his husband until the last day of his birthweek.  

***

"What kind of stray animal are you bringing me this time?" Anders asked, rocking his fox pup in his arms, when he saw the brunet enter the bedroom with a box under each arm.

"There is nothing alive in these boxes," John reassured him. "This one contains gifts from my mother, Annie and George," he specified, putting the smaller one on the bed, "and this one arrived three days ago by boat - it's from your family," he added, doing the same with the larger box.   

"Really? My brothers remembered I exist? I'm surprised," Anders snorted, fighting to keep down against his chest the determined vixen that tried to climb on his shoulder. John was pleased to see she looked already in a better shape than when he had found her on the hunter's display in the morning. "Do you want to open your presents now? I can hold her while you're doing it," he offered.

"Yes, I will open them, but this young lady needs to be fed again first," Anders pointed out, walking to the table to fetch a bowl of milk and a piece of white linen. He dipped a corner of the cloth in the milk and gave it to the vixen that started suckling on it with enthusiasm, emitting little groans of contentment.

"Did you think of a name yet?" John questioned, walking to his husband and putting an arm around his waist.  

"Tiolam."

John had to rack his brain to find the meaning of the Gaelic word. " Like a 'clever opportunity' ? I like it !"

"No, I meant 'Tiolam' more as a 'sudden attempt to bite'," Anders objected, showing Mitchell his fingers with reddish marks of tiny canines. This word had indeed several meanings:  it was also used to speak of a short space or the action of snatching something.

"She only wants to play," Mitchell singsonged, scratching the top of the vixen's head. The pup let out a kind of cooing purr at the attention, abandoning the cloth to lick John's hand. Anders fingers joined the younger man's in the soft fur as they petted the cub. The blond's expression was soft and it made John smile: "a little fox for my foxy little man."

"Aye," Anders breathed, not objecting to the endearment anymore.

"I have a cloth to give her the milk and another for what comes out of the other end," the blond man explained with a slight wince of disgust as he resumed feeding the fox.  

"I see that you're well organized already," John commented.

"I have no choice, since you put the fate of this orphan under my responsibility," he grunted, but Mitchell could see that he had taken the right decision. Anders had a purpose, now. He was happy.

"Shall we see those gifts?" John asked when his husband was done feeding his pet. The consort put the fox back in the box he had prepared with Annie's help: the bottom of it covered with straw and the remains of the kilt Anders had torn up during their first trial - which made a nice little nest for his baby fox. In the meantime, a servant knocked at the door and brought two plates of dried fruits, cheese and bread into the room.

Anders took a few bites of the bread and a gulp of wine, but he sat on the bed with his boxes, more interested in his presents than in the food. He began by opening the one containing the gifts from Brastàl castle's people. John joined him on the bed, bringing his plate with him.

From Lady Ann, Anders got a nice pair of fingerless gloves; just like John's but in blue. He put them on right away before taking the next item from the box. From George, the consort got an expensive bottle of Fìrness whiskey: the best in the North Hills.  Annie had offered him beads and colored leather laces to fix braids.

"Knowing Annie, it's probably meant as a message," John commented around his mouthful.  

"What message?"

"She wants you to let your hair grow so she can play with it like you're a doll."

"Bah. If it can distract her attention from your hair from time to time, I'm ready to sacrifice myself."

Then, when the time came to open the box from Aklànd, Anders seemed a bit apprehensive.

The first thing he took out of the box was a leather pouch. There was a folded label attached saying from who the gift was, but Anders didn't look at it right away. He undid the lace keeping the pouch closed and took some of its content out to inspect it. It was a bundle of brown, shriveled, formless little things.

"Magic mushrooms from Cousin Olaf," Anders stated before John could ask.

"Are you going to eat them?" the warrior asked, disgusted.

"No thanks. They taste horrible. But I'm going to keep them. They can be useful one day."

Anders put the mushrooms back in the box and took the next present.

"Spirit cards," John murmured as Anders opened a small wooden chest with a card deck in it: a present from his husband's youngest brother. Each card represented one of the fifty two spirits. They could be used to tell the good fortune or to play games.

"Sir Axl had a nice idea there," the brunet commented.  

"Maybe, but I don't even know how to play with those," Anders muttered, confused, as he looked at the colorful symbols drawn on the cards.

"You never played the Summertime Battle?" John asked, naming a very popular spirit cards game.

Anders shook his head silently.

"Then you surely know how to play the Three Against Four…"

"No. My stepmother said it's not suitable for a future Great Consort to indulge in gaming. I never learnt to play any card game at all."

"We are going to fix that, then," the warrior replied, nuzzling Anders' temple. "I'm quite good at those games, but I'm afraid that, as smart as you are, once you get familiar with the rules I won't be able to win a single game against you for the rest of our life."

"That's…" the older man let out as he pulled the next gift out of the box, at a sudden loss for words. Tyrone's present to his older brother was truly magnificent.  It was a beautiful, shiny, silver wine cup with engravings representing three different scenes around it. The first image was the one of a boar, its front legs resting against the trunk of an oak tree like it wanted to climb it. The second scene represented a prancing horse with hills in the background. The last one was a river, embracing rocks in its tumultuous flow.

"Ang, Vec and Nèp," John said, naming the spirits of wild boars, horses and rivers.

"No," Anders objected, in awe, "it's even better than that. Look, my dear," he told his husband, holding the cup in the light of the candles and turning it slowly for his spouse to see the engraved images one after another. "It's our matrimonial tests. The first trial: the boar in the forest, then the second trial with the horses and finally, our last one in the river."

John held his hand out to touch the boar, reminiscing. "I searched for you everywhere, that day in the woods, and all this time you were hiding in an oak tree like a squirrel."

"A squirrel that saved your life," Anders pointed out.

"True that: a very useful squirrel you were."

The blond man turned the cup in his gloved hand some more to admire the horse. "I have to confess I was really scared during the second trial," he said, lost in memories as well.

"Yes?" John asked, resting his head on the older man's shoulder.

"Yes. The only thing I was able to remember when I woke up in the glen was your voice wailing my name like someone was ripping your guts out with a rusty hook. I didn't know where I was or where you were.  When I understood that you would have to tame my horse, I really hoped you would remember about the signification of his name, because Ornàn is quite strong and he can be dangerous if someone doesn't know how to handle him. Aklànd castle stables staff called him the 'white evil'. When I got hurt with Pessa I really started to fear he would kill you with a kick or something."

"You feared for me?" John rejoiced, not able to hide his smile.

"Yes. I was a tiny bit smitten already, you know," Anders confessed. "You were that tall, dark and handsome man who lent me his coat at the top of the tower when he saw I was cold. That kind of things tends to turn a guy's head."

"You hid that little crush quite well."  

"I'm that kind of bastard," the blond man conceded, "And in a weird way, I don't think I even realized the effect you had on me."

"I think that the worst trial for me was the third one," John told his husband, running a finger along the engraving of the river on the silver cup.  "You were speaking about guts being pulled out with a rusty hook? That's exactly what I felt when I saw you disappear under the water while you were still trapped in the cage."

"I was terrified as well, but I knew you would save me."

"I will always protect you," the lord vowed, turning his head to leave a kiss over Anders' jawline.  

"I know."  

They were talking about their premarital trials like they had happened years ago when only two moons had passed. So many things had changed since then. They were different men now. Better ones, surely.

 

 

Anders put the wine cup on the nightstand and plunged a hand onto the box to take the last present he had not looked at yet. This one was from Lord Mikkel: an iron spearhead with the apple tree and the J of the Johnsons. Along with it was a long letter. The consort's eyes passed rapidly over the lines of his older sibling's letter. He punctuated his reading with sighs, eyes rolling and "blah blah blah"s.

"Is it so bad?" John enquired, shoving some slices of dried pears in his mouth.

"He's convinced I'm torturing you…"

"You really aren't. What are his exact words?"

"I hope that your husband, who, may I remind you, is the Great Lord, doesn't have any complaints to make about your behavior," Anders quoted, in a fairly good imitation of Mikkel's scolding tone.  

"I don't have any complaints to make about your behavior," John reassured him, throwing a raisin in the air and catching it with his mouth. "You should tell him that in your reply."

"I won't reply at all, he wouldn't believe me anyway."

"I'm going to write to him myself and tell him what a perfect spouse you are in every aspect of our marital life," the lord decided.  

"That'd be genius if you could add a lot of dirty details so he won't dare ask again."

"It's just your older brother's strange way to tell you that he worries about you and loves you."

"I prefer your way of loving me," Anders grunted, moody, probably not realizing how adorable what he said actually was.  

"No gifts or words from your lovely stepmother I guess," John asked as he put his empty plate away and took the boxes to make space on the bed.  

"No. She probably considers that me being finally married to you is enough present for what I deserve. And you know what? She is bloody right. But it's not to her that I owe my happiness… but to you…"

"As I owe mine to you, a ghraìd," the brunet said softly.  "Hey," he whispered to attract the attention of his husband who was still staring at the letter with a deep frown. Blue eyes met his and the lord brushed his thumbs over the older man's eyebrows to erase the frown from that pretty face. The consort relaxed and smile.  The letter was instantly forgotten somewhere on the bed as Anders put his arms around his spouse's neck to welcome his lips on his. John kissed the bad memories, the worries and the dark thoughts away.

"How does it feel to be thirty-two years old?" the brunet questioned when they parted.

"Hm," the smaller man pondered. "I think it makes me realize even more that I'm married to a little boy."

John yelped with mock indignation as he pushed his husband to the mattress. The way the blond chuckled, with that trustful gleam in his eyes, told him that his man only wanted to play. Anders didn't offer much resistance when John bit down his ear lobe gently. He felt his husband shiver under him. "I'm going to show you I'm not a little boy," the warrior purred, "and once I'm done with you, you won't dare question my virility ever again."

A knock on the door interrupted them. "Your highness!?" a voice asked from the other side.  

"I explicitly instructed not to be disturbed for the rest of the night," John grunted in a loud voice.

"I know, my lord, I'm sorry, but Chief Guard Sands has an urgent message for you. He said it couldn't wait. He's in the council hall. "

The brunet rested his forehead against his husband's shoulder in defeat.

"Tell him I'm going to be there in a few minutes," he told the servant.

"Yes, my lord," was the quick reply and they heard the servant's footsteps recede in the corridor.

"I'm sorry," John apologized to his consort.

"It's fine," Anders sighed. "I'm used to it."

He could see the blond was disappointed. "You know what?," John told him as he suddenly got an idea. "What about tomorrow I leave George and my mother in charge of the castle and we get away from Brastàl for a few days? The Lady Astreed isn't ready yet, but we could take the horses and go to Eelry. The local inn has a beautiful garden and they make the best beer-flavored roasted pork I ever ate. We wouldn't be Great Lord and Consort: just newlyweds on their honeymoon."

The older man smiled. "That sounds interesting."

"Think about it, yes?"

"I will."

John left the bed reluctantly, straightened his kilt, put his coat and his golden torc back on and hung his sword to his belt.

He got back to the bed to plant a chaste kiss on his husband's lips.

"Don't wait for me to go to bed," John told him before stealing another kiss. "I don't know how long it will take."

 

***

 

"We just got a message from Carraig, your highness," the guard said as soon as John stepped in the council hall.

George called him "my lord" rarely. If he addressed him saying "your highness", the matter must be really serious.

"I'm listening," John nodded.

"Lord Ferguson wants to inform you of very suspect movements on the border," the chief-guard reported. "People fishing with boats on the Loch Lileas observed several lights on the horizon and columns of smoke, like giant fires in the plains. Lord Ferguson says that at night, those fires can be seen from Carraig's walls. He's afraid that several nomad tribes have gathered on the same territory. Lord Ferguson's spies have heard rumors saying that the nomads are not only after food and horses anymore but that they want to invade the North Hills. Those rumors also speak about allies, coming from some foreign lands to help the nomads take control of our country."

John stayed silent for a moment, to process the news. "I don't understand why strangers would want to help those barbarians to invade us? That doesn't make any sense. I don't believe a word of those stories."

"It seems unlikely indeed," George approved.

"These fires, though… they worry me greatly. "

"That's why I thought it would be a good idea to inform you."

"The battle where my father was nearly killed and Lord Johan Johnson lost his eye to save him… you know what I'm talking about? We were still babies at that time."

"Yes, I know what you're talking about. It’s the reason why you are married to Anders now."

"Exactly, but that's beside the point. My father told me that weeks before that battle, people of Cuilc had observed fire lights in the plains, south of the marshes. Nobody had deemed it important or threatening at that time. When they understood they were attacked, it was too late for Cuilc and Fergus which had been burned down and pillaged. The nomads were at the door of Carraig when reinforcement finally arrived. "

"You think that's what is about to happen?"

"I think the nomads are preparing for a real war, and they think we have a short memory. If people are still fishing with boats on Loch Lileas, it means it's not frozen. If the nomads want to attack, they'll have to cross it, a thing they probably won't want to do. They'll try to cross where the loch narrows and transforms into the river. We have to evacuate the population of Archerwall and build a defense there."

"I take that you're going to call a military campaign," George understood.

"Yes, I am," John said firmly. "Sitting back and waiting could have disastrous consequences. I don't want to take any chance."

"I'm at your orders, my lord,"  the other man assured him.

"You're going to send letters to Aklànd, Lìnden, Brenn, Maverick, Keirmoor, Carraig, Fìrness and Walsham – all the clan chiefs must be informed as soon as possible. For our own territory, send instructions to the governors of Somerled, Bailtean, Longdale and Eelry to start mobilizing soldiers. Tell the governor of Bailtean I want a minimum of three hundred men, even if he has to take soldiers from the city guard to do so. The Lords and their armies must be gathered on the south border in Archerwall before the fifth day of the week of Ôs.  Tell the governors of our cities that we are going to gather our troops here. "

"It will be done as you wish," George assured his Lord.  "About the messages, the pigeons…" he began to ask.

"No," John cut him off, "no pigeons! I want reliable messengers on horsebacks. But wait before sending the messenger to Aklànd, I have a personal letter to write to my brother-in-law."

"Perfect," George said. He made a quick bow and was about to leave the room when the Great Lord called him.

"And George, please not a word to anybody else for now, not even my husband. I'll tell him myself. I don't want him to learn about it from another source."

"It's perfectly understandable," the other man smiled.

"Goodnight, my friend, thanks for everything," John smiled back.

"Goodnight, John."

As soon as George left, the young man walked to his throne and collapsed in it. He stayed there, in the dark room only lightened by the last few dying embers in the hearth.

John Mitchell was a warrior: it was in his blood. He had always looked forward to the thrill of the battlefield. This time, things were different. Funny how being a married man could change the way you considered life. His priorities had changed: or in fact, they hadn't changed that much – the first one was still the happiness and security of his people. But now, among these people, there was also the husband he cherished. He didn't want to go to war and leave his partner alone in these troubled days… but he had to.

He would not ask the blond man to accompany him to war, not this time. He needed someone to stay and rule the city, defend it if it was needed. He also knew that the constant worry of having Anders on the battlefield would distract him too much.  His only relief was to know that Tiolam would be there to keep company to Anders and taking care of her would give the blond something to do during his absence. He took a mental note to take some of the birds from the gate-house's pigeon loft with him when he would leave. This way he would be able to send letters to his husband.

Going to war seemed less appealing than it once did, but this was the only way he could assure a safe place to live for Anders and their future children. John knew he would be less reckless and impulsive during this military campaign, because now he had someone to come back to – someone waiting for him.

If he wanted to prevent any invasion by the nomads, he would have to leave with his soldiers in the middle of the week of Rêt at the latest. The week of the spirit of silence was less than a moon from now. The young lord knew the weeks until his departure would pass in the blink of an eye and that he had to make the best of the time he had left. From now on, he would be even busier than he was before, but whatever happened, he would keep his promise and bring Anders to Eelry for a short honeymoon. They both needed it.

Before leaving the room, he stopped in front of the portrait of his parents and stared at his father's impressive stature. "I think you'd be proud of me, father, and of Anders as well," he told him out loud. "Thank you. You couldn’t have given me a better husband and I think we finally figured out how to dance together."

***

 

He opened the door of his bedroom and tiptoed in, trying not to make too much noise. A candle was still alight on the nightstand and he could see a sleeping form in the bed. The young man shrugged his coat off and he couldn't help a fond smile as he walked closer to the bed. Anders was asleep on his side, blond curls spilled on his relaxed face. His arm was protectively placed around the baby fox curled up against his chest. John drank in the adorable sight for a moment before taking the sleeping cub from Anders' arms gently, trying not to wake his husband up.

"Hey buddy," Mitchell murmured to the little furry creature. The vixen opened her eyes and yawned before starting to squeal hungrily. "Shhh," the brunet shushed her as he crossed the room and reached for the still half-full bowl of milk and the cloth. When he was done feeding her, John put the already dozing off pup in her box.  

Once he had made sure Tiolam was asleep, John stripped from his kilt and shirt and tossed them carelessly to the floor. He slipped under the covers and as the mattress dipped under his weight, the blond man stirred and blinked.

"Where's the puppy?" Anders muttered, confused.

"She's fine, I’ve just put her back in the box," John reassured him, brushing blond locks away from his lover's face. A hand sneaked under the blanket to grasp his hip. Anders used that anchorage to pull himself closer to his husband and pressed his face to the hot skin of John's pectorals, rubbing his cheek on the chest hair with a hum of sleepy content. The brunet chuckled as he took his beloved in his arms. "You're quite cuddly tonight. What did I do to earn such sweetness?"

"Nothing," Anders mumbled, "I'm just an opportunist. The room is cold and you're warm."

John raised a brow but didn't make any comment. The bedroom was in fact of a very comfortable temperature. He knew by now that Anders had his pride, so he stayed quiet and just smiled.

"I'm glad I'll have you all winter, maiseach*. You're quite a good hot bottle," the blond added.

John was still overjoyed every time Anders told him again he would not leave him, that he had forgotten about his plan to go to Pine Port and was there to stay for good. This joy was soon replaced by a less pleasant feeling. The younger man gulped:  trying to swallow down the lump that had just formed in his throat. He knew now that he wouldn't be able to be there and share this bed with Anders for most of the winter. He would be away, shivering under a tent, trying to warm up his fingers around a mug of tasteless herbal tea, waiting for the nomads to attack. It would make it even more difficult knowing that he could be at home instead, in his own bed, covering the warm expanse of Anders' skin with loving kisses. But this was his life. It could be better, but it could be worse, and now he had a purpose: someone to live for.  

John was about to blow the candle, thinking that his love was asleep in his arms but a smooth palm wandering down his back and lips trailing lazily on his collarbone told him otherwise.

"What time is it?"  Anders asked.

The candle on the nightstand was only a puddle of beeswax, close to being completely burned and extinguishing by itself. "Very late," Mitchell replied, nuzzling in golden curls.

Anders' lips reached the brunet's neck. "Too late to make love?" he asked in a murmur.

"It's never too late for that," John whispered as he rolled on top of his man before claiming his mouth in a kiss that promised thousands of pleasures.

He wouldn't tell his husband about the military campaign …. not now at least … tomorrow maybe. He chased the nomad tribes from his mind.  As far as he knew, they hadn't set foot in the North Hills yet and even if they had, they would certainly not get to the Brastàl’s castle door during the night. Tonight, he did not want to worry. Tonight was not about war but about love.

Tonight was all about Anders.

 

 

**The End**

…

 

 

 

 

Or is it ?

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is the end of the Autumn and the end of John's point of view, but IT'S NOT THE END OF THE STORY!!! :) I just couldn,t leave this universe, and there is plotlines that need to be tied together, so this AU will become a serie. 
> 
> Stay in tune for WHAT BINDS US - THE WINTER where we will get to see what happens from inside of Anders' pretty little head. I already have three chapters and a half written. I don't know when we are going to be ready to begin posting it. Not now at least. 
> 
> So please, don,t forget to leave kudos on the new story as well, so I know I'm not alone and that you lovely readers are still there with me. :)  
> Thanks for reading and for your encouragements, folks.  
> much lovexxx  
> dandelion
> 
> * Maiseach = handsome/elegant/beautiful in scottish gaelic. Here Anders uses it as an endearment. (yes, he is capable of such a thing ...when slumber lowers his inhibition. ;)


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